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THE 



ENGLISH READER: 



OR, 



PIECES IN PROSE AND POETRY, 



SELECTED 



FEOM THE BEST'WRITER&. 



DESIGNEE TO A3S1ST YOUNG PERSONS TOJESAD WITH PROPRIETY AND EFFECT ; TO 
DfTRm'E THEIR LANGUAGE AND SENTIMENTS; AND TO INCULCATE SOME OF 
' THE MOST IMPORTANT PRINCIPLES OF PIETY AND VIRTLT]. 



WITH A^FEW PRELIMI>'Ail^ OBSERVATIONS 



ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING, 



BY LIJ^DLEY MURRAY, 

Author of an English Grammar, &c. &c. 



PUBLISHED AND SOLD BY DANIEL D. SIVHTH, 

AT THE FRANKLIN JUVENILE BOOK AND STATIONART STORE, 
Np. 190 Greenwich-street 

1826, 



.0 



/ 2^^i 



PREFACE 



MANY selections of excellent matter have been made for the 
benefit of voung' persons. Performances of this kind are of so 
great utility, that fresh productions of them, and new attempts to 
improve the young mind, will scarcely be deemed" superfluous, if 
the writer make his compilation instructive and interesting, and 
sufficiently distinct from others. 

^he present work, as the title expresses, aims at the attainment 
of three objects: to improve youth in the art of reading; to melio- 
rate their language and sentiments ; and to inculcate some of the 
most important principles of piety and virtue. 

The pieces selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of 
emotions, and the correspondent tones and variations of voice, but 
contain sentences and members of sentences, which are diversified, 
proportioned, and pointed with accuracy. Exercises of this nature 
are, it is presumed, well calculated to teach youth to read with pro- 
priety and effect. A selection of sentences, in which variety and 
proportion, with exact punctuation, have been carefully observed, 
in all their parts as well as with respect to one another, will proba- 
bly have a much greater eEQct^ in properly teaching the art of read- 
incr, than is commonly imagined. In such constructions, every 
thmg is accommodated to the understanding and the voice ; and the 
common difficulties in learning to read well are obviated. When 
the learner has acquired a habit of reading such sentences, with , 
justness and facility, lie will readily apply that habit, and the im- 
provements he has made, to sentences more complicated and irregu- 
far, and of a construction entirely different. 

The language of the pieces chosen for this collection has been 
carefully regarded. Purity, propriety, perspicuity, and, in many 
instances, elegance of diction, distinguish them. They ai'e extractecl 
from the works of tlie most correct and elegant writers. From the 
sources whence the sentiments are drawn, the reader may expect 
to find them connected and regular, sufficiently important and im- 
pressive, and divested of every thing that is either trite or eccentric. 
The frequent perusal of such composition naturallj" tends to infuse 
a taste for this species of excellence; and to produce a habit ot 
thinking, and of composing, with judgment and accuracy."^ 

That this collection may also serve the purpose of promoting 
piety and virtue, the Compiler has introduced many extracts, which 
place religion in the most amiable light; and which recommend a 

* The learner, in his progress through this volume and the Sequel to \i, 
will meet with numerous instances of composition, in strict coaformitj to the 
rules for promoting perspicuous and elegant writing contained in the Appen- 
dix to the Author's English Grammar. By occasionally examining this con- 
formity, he will be confirmed in the utility of those rules ; and be enabled to 
apply them with ease and dexterity. 

It is proper further to observe, that the Reader and the Sequel, besides 
teaching to read accurately, and inculcating many important sentiments, may 
be considered as auxiliaries to the Author's English Grammar : as practical 
illustrations of the orinciple? and rules contained in that work. 



jV teEFACE. 

gi-eat variety of moral duties, by the excellence of their nature, and 
the happy effects they produce. These subjects ari? exhibited in a 
style and manne'r which are calculated to arrest the attention of 
youth ; and to make strong and durable impressions on their minds.* 

The Compiler has been careful to avoid every expression and 
sentiment, that might gr^dify a corrupt mind, or, in the least degree, 
offend the eye or ear of innocence. This he conceives to be pecu- 
liarly incumbent on every person who writes for the benefit of youth. 
It would, indeed, be a great and happy improvement in education, if 
no writings were allowed to come under their notice, but such as 
are perfectly innocent ; and if, on all proper occasions, they were 
encouraged to peruse those which tend to inspire a due reverence 
for virtue, and an abhorrence of vice, as well as to animate them 
vv^ith sentiments of piety and goodness. Such impressions deeply 
engraven on their minds, and connected with all their attainments, 
could scarcely fail of attending them through life, and of producing 
a solidity of principle and character, that would be able to resist the 
danger arising from future intercourse with the world. 

The Author has endeavoured to relieve the grave and serious parts 
of his collection, by the occasional admission of pieces which amuse 
as well as instruct. If, however, any of his readers should think 
it contains too great a proportion of the forrner, it may be som.e 
apology, to observe that, in the existing publications designed for 
the perusal of young persons, the preponderance is greatty on the 
side of gay and amusing productions. Too much attention may be 
paid to this medium of improvement. When the imagmation, of 
youth especially, is much entertained, the sober dictates of the un- 
derstanding are regarded with mdifference; and the influence of 
good affections is either feeble, or transient. A temperate use of 
such enter tainm,ent seems therefore requisite, to afford proper scope 
for the operations of the understanding and the heart. 

The reader will perceive, that the Compiler has been solicitous to 
recom.mend to young persons, the perusal of the sacred Scriptures, 
by interspersing through his v/ork some of the most beautitul and 
interesting passages oi those invaluable v/ritings. To excite aa 
early taste and veneration for this great rule of life, is a point of so 
Iiigh importance, as to warrant the attempt to promote it on every 
proper occasion. 

To improve the young mind, and to afford some assistance to 
tutors, in the arduous and important work of education, were the 
motives which led to this production. If the Autlior should be so 
successful as to accomplish these ends, even in a small degree, he 
will think that his time and pains have been well employed, and 
will deem himiself amply rewarded. 

* In some of the p>ieces, the Compiler has made a few alteration^, chiefly 
verbal, to adant them the better to the design of his w<jrk. 




II^TRODUCTION. 



OBSERVATIOJVS OjY THE PRIjYCIFLES OF GOOD 
READIjYG. 

TO read with propriety is a pleasing and important attainment; produc- 
tive of improvement both to the understanding and the heart. It. is essential 
to a complete reader, that he minutely perceive the ideas, and enter into the 
feelings of the author, whose sentiments he professes to repeat : for how is it 
passible to represent clearly to others, what we have but faint or inaccuraie 
conceptions of ourselves ? If there were no other benefits resulting from the 
art of reading well, than the necessity it lays us under, of precisely ascertaining 
the meaning of what we read ; and the habit thence acquired, of doing this with 
facility, both when reading silently and aloud, they would constitute a sufficient 
compensation for all the labour we can bestow upon the subject. But the 
pleasure derived to ourselves and others, from a clear communication of ideas 
and feelings ; and the strong and durable impressions made thereby on tho 
minds of the reader and the audience, are considerations, which give addi- 
tional importance to the study of lliis necessary and useful art. The perfect 
attainment of it doubtless requires great attention and practice, joined to ex- 
traordinary natural powers: butastliere are many degrees of excellence in 
the art, the student whose aims fall short of perfection will find himself amply 
rewarded for every exertion he may think proper to make. 

To give rules for the management of the voice in reading, by which the ne- 
cessary pauses, emphasis, and tones, may be discovered and put in practice, is 
not possible. After all the directions that can be offered on these points, much 
will remain to be taught by the living instructer • much will be attainable by 
no other means, than the force of example influencing the imitative powers 
of the learner. Some rales and principles on these heads will, however, be 
found useful, to prevent erroneous and vicious modes of utterance ; to give 
the yxmg reader some taste of the subject; and to assist him in acquiring a 
just and accurate mode of delivery. The observations which we have to 
make, for these purposes, may be comprised under the following heads: 

J^^jQl LOUDNESS OF VOICE; DISTINCTXESS ; SLOWNESS; PROPRIETY OF PRONUNCIA- 
TION ; EMPHASih- ; TONES ; PAUSES ; and mode of reading verse. 

SECTION I. 

Proper Loudness of Voice. 
The first attention of every person who reads to others, doubtless, must 
be, to make himself be heard by all those to whom he read*. He must endea- 
vour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the company. This power 
of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is, in a good mea- 
sure, the gift of nature ; but it may receive considerable assistance from art. 
Much depends, for this purpose, on the proper pitch and management of the 
voice. Every person has three pitches in his voice ; the high, the middle, 
and the low one. The high, is that Avhich he uses in calling aloud to some 
person at a distance. The low is, when he approaches to a whisper. The 
middle is, that which he employs in common conversation, and which he 
should generally use in reading to others. For it is a great r. istake, to ima- 
gine that one must take the hiirhest pitch of his voice, in order to be well 
heard in a large company. This is confounding two things which are different, 
loudness or sti ength of sound, with the key or note on which we speak. There 
is a variety of sound within the compass of each key. A speaker may there- 
fore render his voice louder, w thout altering the key : and we shall always be 
able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitrh cf 
voice, to which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas by netting out 

J^OTE. 
For many of the observations contained in tliis preliminary tract, the Author *• 
fud^bted totlie writing?? of Dr. Blair, and to the Encycrbnedia Britanpfca-^ 

A^ 



Vl4 



VI INTRODdCTION. 

on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, an 5 
are hkely to strain our voice before we have done. We shall fatig^ie ourselves, 
and read with pain; and whenever a person speaks with pain to himself, he 
is always heard with pain by his audience. Let us therefore give the voice full 
strength and swell of sound ; but always pitch it on our ordinary speaking 
key. It should be a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice 
than we can aflbrd without pain to ourselves, Sand without any extraordinary 
effort. As long as we keep within these bounds, the other organs of speech 
v/ill be at liberty to discharge their several offices with ease; and we shall al' 
ways have our voice under command. But whenever we transgress thesa 
bounds, we give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it. It 
is a useful rule too, in order to be well heard, to cast our eye on some of the 
most distant persons in the company, and to consider ourselves as reading to 
them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words with such a degree of 
strength, as to make ourselves be heard oy the person whom we address, pro- 
vided he is within the reach of our voice. As this is the case in conversation, 
it will hold also in reading to others. But let us remember, that in reading, 
as well as in conversation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This 
extreme hui-ts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling, indis- 
tinct masses. 

By ttie habit of reading, when young, in a loud and vehement manner, the 
voice becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key; and is rendered incapa- 
ble of that variety of elevation and depression which constitutes tlie true har- 
mony of utterance, and affords ease to the reader, and pleasure to the audi- 
ence. This unnatural pitch of the voice, and disagreeable monotony, are 
most observable in persons who were taught to read in large rooms; who 
were accustomed to stand at too great a distance, when reading to their 
teachers; whose instructers were very imperfect in their hearing; or who 
were taught by persons, that considered Icud expression as the chief requi- 
site in forming a good reader. These are circumstances which demand the 
serious attention of every one to whom the education of youth is committed. 

SECTION II. 

Distinctness. 

Irf the next place, to being well heard and clearly understood, distinctness 
of articulation contributes more than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of 
sound necessary to fill even a large space, is smaller than is commonlx^img* 
gined; and, with di,«tinct articulation, a person with a weak voice will make it 
reach farther, than the strongest voice can reach without it. To this, there- 
fore, every reader ought to pay great attention. He must give 'evj^i^j^ound 
which he utters, its due proportion ; and make every syllable, and even every 
letter in the word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly ; without slur- 
ring", whispering, or suppressing any of the proper sounds. 

An accurate knowledge of the simple, elementary sounds of the language, 
and a facility in expiessing them, are so necessary to distinctness of expres- 
sion, that if the learners attainments are, m this respect, imperfect, (and marry 
there are in this situation) it will be incumbent on his teacher, to carry him 
back to these primary articulations; and to suspend his progress, till he be- 
come perfectly master of them. It will be in vain to press him forward, with 
the hope of forming a good reader, if he cannot completely articulate every 
elementary sound of the language. 

SECTION III. 

Due Degree of Slowness. 
In order to express ourselves distinctly, moderation is requisil^ with regard 
to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds all articulation, 
and all meaning. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that there may be also 
an extreme on the opposite side. It is obv-ious that a lifeless, drawling manner 
of reading, which allows the minds of the hearers to be always outrunning the 
speaker, must render every such performance insipid and fatiguing. But the 
extreme of reading too fast is much more common, and requires tee. more 



INTRODUCTION. v'n 

be g-uarded against, because, when it has gi'own into a habit, few errors are 
more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce w^ith a proper degree of slow- 
ness, and with full and clear articulation, is necessary to be studied by all, who 
wish to become good readers ; and it cannot be too much recommended to 
them. Such a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to the subject. It is a 
great assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows the reader 
more easily to make ; and it enables the reader to swell all his sounds, both 
with more force and more harmony. 

SECTION IV. 

Propriety of Pronunciation. 

After the fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the 
voice, to di-stinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech 
what the young reader must, in the next place, study, is propriety of pro- 
nunciation; or, giving to every word which he utters, that sound which the 
best usage of the language appropriates to it ; in opposition to broad, vulgar, 
or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite both for reading intelligibly, 
and for reading with correctness and ease. Instructions concerning this ar- 
ticle may be best given by the living teacher. But there is one observation, 
which it may not be improper here to make. In the English language, every 
word which consists of more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. 
The accents rest sometimes on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. The 
genius of tlie language requires the voice to mark that syllable by a stronger 
percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. Now, after we have learn- 
ed the proper seats of these accents, it is an important rule, to give every word 
just the same accent in reading, as in common discourse. Many persons err 
■ in this respect. When they read to others, and with solemnity, they pro- 
nounce the syllables in a ditferent manner from what they do at other times. 
They dwell upon them and protract them ; they multiply accents on the sarao 
word; from a mistalven notion, that it gives gravity and importance to their 
subject, and adds to the energy of their delivery. Whereas this is one of the 
greatest faults that can be committed in pronunciation: it makes what is called 
a pompous or mouthing manner ; and gives an artificial, affected air to read- 
iner, which detracts greatly both from its agreeableness and its impression. 

Sheridan and Walker have published Dictionaries, for ascertaining the true 
and best pronunciation of the words of our language. By attentively con- 
sulting them, particularly "Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary," the young rea- 
der will be much assisted, in his endeavours to attain a correct pronunciatiorn 
of the words belonging to the English language. 

SECTION V. 
Emphasis. 

By Emphasis is meant a stronger and fuller sound of voice, by which we dis- 
tinguish some word or words, on which we design to lay particular stress, and 
io show how they affect the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the emphatic 
words must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a par- 
ticular stress. On the right management of the emphasis depends the life of 
pronunciation. If no emphasis be placed on any words, not only is discourse 
rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If the em- 
phasis be placed Avrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly. 

Emphasis may be divided into the Superior and the Inferior emphasis. The 
superior emphasis determines the meaning of a sentence, with reference to 
something said before, presupposed by the author as general knowledge, or 
removes an ambiguity, where a passage may have more senses than one. 
The inferior emphasis enforces^ graces, and enlivens, but does not j^u.', the 
meaning of any passage. The words to which this latter emphasis is given, are, 
in general, such as seem tlie most important in the sentence, or, on other ac- 
counts, to merit this distinction. The following passage will seive to exem- 
plify the superior emphasis. 

*' Of man's tirst disobedience, and the fruit 
" Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 



irlii INTRODUCTION. 

" Brought death into the world, and al! our wo,'' &c. 
*' Sing heavenly Muse 1" 

Supposing that originally other beings, besides men, had disobeyed the 
commands of the Almighty, and that the circumstance were well known to 
us, there would fall an emphasis upon the word marl's in the first line ; and 
hence it would read thus : 

*' Of mail's first disobedience, and the fruit," Sec. 

But if it were a notorious truth, that mankind had transgressed in a pecuh'ar 
manner more than oace, the emphasis would fall on Jirst; and the line be 
read, 

*' Of man's Jirst disobedience," &c. 

Again, admitting death (as was really the case) to have been an unheard of 
and dreadful punishment, brought upon man in consequence of his transgres- 
sion ; on that supposition the third line would be read, 
" Brought death into the world," &c. 

But if we were to suppose that mankind knew there was such an evil as 
death in other regions, though the place they inhabited had been free from 
it till their transgression, the line would run thus: 
" Brought death into the world,''' &,c. 

The superior emphasis finds place in the following short sentence, which 
admits of four distinct meanings, each of which is ascertained by the emphasis 
only. 

*' Do you ride to town to-day ?" 

The following examples illustrate the nature and use of the inferior em- 
phasis : 

" Many persons mistake the love for the practice of virtue." 

" Shall I reward his services with falsehood/^ Shall I forget Mm who cannot 
forget mc.^" 

** If his principles are false, no apology from himself can make them right • 
if founded in truth, no censure from others can make them ivrongy 

" Though deejt, yet clear ; though geMle, yet not didl; 
" Strong without rage: without o'erfloioing, full.'' 

** AJ\nend exaggerates a man's virtues; an enemy, his crimes.^^ 

" The wise man is happy, when he gains his own approbation ; the fool^ 
when he gains that of others." 

The supeiHor emphasis, in reading as in speaking, must be determined en- 
tirely by the sense of the passage, and always made alike: but as to the in- 
ferior emphasis, taste alone seems to have the right of fixing its situation and 
quantity. 

Among the number of persons, who have had proper opportunities of learn- 
ing to read, in the best manner it is now taught, very few could be selected, 
who, in a given instance, would use the inferior emphasis alike, either as to 
place or quantity. Some persons, indeed, use scarcely any degree of it: and 
others do not scruple to carry it far beyond any thing to be found in com- 
mon discourse ; and even sometimes throv/ it upon words so very trifling in 
themselves, that it is evidently done with no other view, than to give greater 
variety to the modulation.* Notv»'ithstanding this diversity of practice, there 
are certainly proper boundaries, within which this emphasis must be restrain- 
ed, in order to make it meet the approbation of sound judgment and correct 
taste. It will doubtless have different degrees of exertion, according to the 
greater or less degrees of importance of the words upon which it operates; 
and there may be very properly some variety in the use of it: but its applica- 
tion is not arbitrary, depending on the caprice of readers. 

* By modulation is meant that pleasing variety of voice, which is perceived in utter- 
ing a sentence, and which, in its nature, is perfectly distinct from emphasis, and the 
tones of emotion and passion. The young reader should be careful to render his 
modulation correct and easy ; and, for this parpose. should form ft upon the niode; 
of the most iadigious and accurate speaker?. 



INTRODUCTION. ix 

As emphasis often falls on words in different parts of the same sentence, so 
it is frequently required to be continued with a little variation, on two, and 
sometimes more words together. The following sentences exemphfy both 
the parts of this position : " If you seek to make one rich, study not to in* 
crease his stores^ but to diminish his desires^ " The Mexican figures, or pic- 
ture writing, represent things^ not words: they exhibit images to the eye, not 
ideas to the understanding.'''' 

Some sentences are so full and comprehensive, that almost every word is 
emphatical: as, "Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains!" or, as 
that pathetic expostulation in the prophecy of Ezekiel, " Why will ye die !'* 

Emphasis, besides its other offices, is the great regulator of quantity. Though 
the quantity of our syllables is fixed, in words separately pronounced, yet it is 
mutable, when these words are arranged in sentences ; the long being changed 
into short, the short into long, according to the importance of the word with re- 
gard to meaning. Emphasis also, in particular cases, alters the seat of the ac- 
ceat. This is demonstrable from the following examples. " He shall in- 
crease, but I shall cfecrease." *' There is a difference between giving and 
/brgiving." " In this species of composition, plausihWiij is much more es- 
sential than probability." In these examples, the emphasis requires the ac- 
cent to be placed on syllables, to which it does not commonly belong. 

In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the great rule 
to be given, is, that the reader study to attain a just conception of the force and 
spirit of the sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis 
with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention, it 
is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the most decisive 
trials of a true and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, 
and from judging accurately of what is fittest to strike the feelings of others. 

There is one error, against which it is particularly proper to caution the 
Ifiarner: namely, that of multiplying^emphatical words too much, and using 
the emphasis indiscriminately. It is only by a prudent reserve and distinction 
in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. If they recur too 
often ; if a reader attempts to render every thing he expresses of high impor- 
tance, by a multitude of strong emphases, we soon learn to pay httle regard 
to them. To crowd every sentence with emphatical words, is like crowding 
all the pages of a book with Italic characters ; which, as to the effect, is just 
the same as to use no such distinctions at all. 

SECTION VI. 

Tones, 

Tones are different both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the notes 
6r variations of sound which we employ, in the expression of our sentiments. 
Emphasis affects particular words and phrases, with a degree of j^pne or in- 
flexion of voice ; but tones, peculiarly so called, affect sentences,^-*uaragraphs> 
and sometimes even the vfhole of a discourse. 

To show the use and necessity of tones, we need only observe, that the 
n?ind, in communicating its ideas, is in a constant state of activity, emotion, or 
agitation, from the different effects which those ideas produce ia the speakeT. 
Now the end of such communication being, not merely to lay open the ide^is, 
but also the different feelings which they excite in him who utters them, there 
must be other signs than words, to manifest those feelings ; as v/ords uttered 
in a monotoaous manner can represent only a similar state of mind, perfectly 
free from all activity and emotion. As the communication of these internal 
feelings was of much more consequence in our social intercourse, thaa the 
mere conveyance of ideas, the Author of our being did not, as in that convey- 
ance, leave the invention of the language of emotion to man ; but impressed 
it himself upon our nature, in the same manner as he has done with regard 
(o the rest of the animal world; all of which express their various feelings, by 
various tones. Ours, indeed, from the superior rank that we hold, are in a high 
degree more comprehensive ; as there is not an act of the mind, an exertion 
oCthe fancy, or an omotion of the heart, which has not its peculiar tone, or note 



SL INTRODUCTION. 

of the voice, hy which it is to be expressed ; and which is suited exactiy to the 
degree of internal feeling. It is chiefly in the proper use cf these tones, that 
the life, spirit, beauty, and harmony of delivery consist. 

The limits of this Introduction do not admit of examples, io illustrate the 
variety of tones belonging to the different passions and emotions. We shall, 
however, select one, which is extracted from the beautiful lamentation of 
David over Saul and Jonathan, and w^hich will, in some degree, elucidate 
what has been said on this subject. " The beauty of Israel is slain upon 
thy high places ; how are the mighty fallen ! Tell it not in Gath ; publish it 
not in the streets of Askelon ; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice ; lest 
the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains of Gilboa, let 
there be no dew nor rain upon you, nor fiel«ls of offerings ; for there the shield 
of the mighty was vilely cast away; the shield of Saul, as though he had not 
been anointed with oil." The first of theee divisions expresses sorrow and la- 
mentation: therefore the note is low. The next contains a spirited command, 
and should be pronounced much higher. The other sentence, in which he 
makes a pathetic address to the mountains w^here his friends had been slain, 
must be expressed in a note quite different from the two former; not so low 
as the first, nor so high as the second, in a manly, firm, and yet plaintive tone. 

The correct and natural language of the emotions is not so difficult to be 
attained, as most readers seem to imagine. If we enter into the spirit of the 
author's sentiments, as well as into the meaning of his words, we shall not 
fail to deliver the wordsin properly varied tones. For there are few people, 
who speak English without a provincial note, that have not an accurate use 
of tones, when they utter their sentiments in earnest discourse. And the rea- 
«on that they have not the same use of them, in reading aloud the sentiments 
of nthers, may be traced to the very defective and erroneous method in 
which the art of reading is taught ; whereby all the various, natural, expres- 
sive tones of speech, are suppressed ; and a few artificial, unmeaning reading 
rwtes, are substituted for them. 

But when we recommend to readers, an attention to the tone and language 
of emotions. We must be understood to do it with proper limitation. Modera- 
tion is necessary in this point, as it is in other things. For when reading be- 
comes strictly imitative, it assumes a theatrical manner, and must be highly 
improper, as well as give oS*ence to the hearers ; because it is inconsistent 
with that delicacy and modesty, which are indispensable on such occasions. 
The speaker who delivers his own emotions must be supposed to be mors 
vivid and animated, than would be proper in the person who relates them 
at second hand. 

We shall conclude this section with the following rule, for the tones that in- 
dicate the passions and emotions. " In reading, let all your tones of expres- 
sion be fcti>rrowed from those of common speech, but, in some degree, more 
faintly chiwicterised. Let those tones which signify any disagreeable passion 
of the mind, be still more faint than those which indicate agreeable emotions ; 
and, on all occasions, preserve yourselves from being so far affected with tlie 
subject, as to be able to proceed through it, with that easy and masterly man- 
ner, which has its good effects in this, as well as in every other art." 

SECTION VII. 

Pauses, 

^AUSES or rests, in speaking or reading, are a total cessation of the voice, 
during a perceptible, and in many cases, a measurable space of time. Pauses 
are equally necessary to the speaker, and the hearer. To the speaker, that he 
may take breath, without which he cannot proceed far in delivery ; and that 
he may, by these temporary rests, relieve the organs of speech, which other- 
wise would be soon tired by continued action : to the hearer, that the ear 
also may be relieved from the fatigue, which it would otherwise endure from 
a continuity of sound ; and that the understanding may have sufhcient time to 
mark the distinction of sentences, and their several members. 

There are two kinds of pauses : first, emDhatical pauses ; and next, such as 



INTRODUCTION. xi 

mark the distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is generally naade after 
something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we desire to fix 
the hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it in 
with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same eifect as a strong em- 
phasis ; and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the caution, of not re- 
peating them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and of 
course raise expectation, if the importance of the matter be not fully answer- 
able t^ such expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. 

But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the divisions 
of the sense, and at the same time to allow the reader to draw his breath ; and 
the proper and delicate adjustment of such pauses is one of the most nice and 
difficult articles of delivery. In all reading, the management of the breath 
requires a good deal of care, so as not to oblige us to divide words from one 
another, which have go intimate a connexion, that they ought to be pronounced 
with the same breath, and without the least separation. Many a sentence is 
miserably mangled, and the force of the emphasis totally lost, by divisions being 
made in the wrong place. To av'oid this, every one, while he is reading, 
should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. 
It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn only at the 
end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered 
at the intervals of the period, when the voice is suspended only for a moment ; 
and, oy this management, one may always have a sufficient stock for carrying 
on the longest sentence, without improper interruptions. 

Pauses in reading must generally be formed upon the manner in which we 
utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stiff arti- 
ficial manner, which is acquired from reading books according to the common 
punctuation. It will by no means be sufficient to attend to the points used 
in printing ; for these are far from marking all the pauses, which ought to 
be made in reading. A mechanical attention to these resting places, has per- 
haps been one cause of monotony, by leading the reader to a similar tone 
at every stop, and a uniform cadence at every period. The primary use of 
points, is to assist the reader in discerning the grammatical construction; 
and it is only as a secondary object, that they regulate his pronunciation. 
On this head, the following direction may be of use : " Though in reading great 
attention should be paid to the stops, yet a greater should be given to the 
senfie ; and tlieir correspondent times occasionally lengthened beyond what is 
usual in common speech." 

To render pauses pleasing and expressive, they must not only be made 
in the right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by 
which the nature of these pauses is intimated ; much more than by the length 
of them, which can seldom be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a 
slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a degree of 
cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar tone and ca- 
dence w^hich denote the sentence to be finished. In all these cases, we are to 
regulate ourselves by attending to the manner in which nature teaches us to 
speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. The follow- 
ing sentence exemplifies the suspending and the dosing pauses : " Hope, the 
balm of life, sooths us under every misfortune." The first and second pauses 
are accompanied by an inflection of voice, that gives the hearer an expectation 
of something further to complete the sense : the inflection attending the 
third pause signifies that the seiise is completed. 

^ The preceding example is an illustration of the suspending pause, in its 
shnple state: the following instance exhibits that pause with a degree of 
cadence in the voice : " If content cannot remove the disquietudes of mankind, 
it will at least alleviate them." 

The suspending pause is often, in the same sentence, attended with both 
the rising and the falling inflection of voice ; as will be seen in this exam- 
ple : " Moderate exerci3e\ and habitual temperance', strengthen the consti- 
iatijii."* 

* TUe rising Inflection is (Jenoted by tbe acute; the feSiRgj by ll>.e grave accent 



xii liYTRODUCTION. 

As the suspending pause may be thus attended with both the rising and Uie 
falling inflection, it is the same with regard to the closing pause : it admit? 
of both. The falling inflection generally accompanies it ; but it is not unfre- 
c^uently connected with the rising inflection. Interrogative sentences, fop 
instance, are often terminated in this manner : as, " Am I ungrateful' ?" " Is 
he in earnest' ?'* 

But where a sentence is begun by an interrogative pronoun or adverb, it 
is commonly terminated by the falling inflection : as, " What has he gained 
by his folly\?" " Who will assist him\^" *' Where is the mes§;^nger\?" " When 
did he arrive\''" 

W>xen two questions are united in one sentence, and connected by the con- 
junction or, the first takes the rising, the Second the falling inflection; as, 
"Does his conduct support discipline', or destroy itV" 

The rising and falling inflections must not be confounded with emphasis. 
Though they may often coincide, they are, in their nature, perfectly distinct. 
Emphasis sometimes controls those inflections. 

The regular application of the rising and falling inflections, confers so much 
beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be studied by the young reader, 
that we shall insert a few more examples to induce him to pay greater atten- 
tion to the subject. In these instances, all the inflections are not marked. 
Such only are distinguished, as are most striking, and will best serve to show the 
reader their utility and importance. 

" r.Ianufactures\ trade\ and agriculture', certainly employ more than niite- 
teen parts in twenty of the human species." 

" He who resigns the world has no temptation to envy', hatred\ malice\ 
anger' ; but is in constant possession of a serene mind : he who follows the plea- 
sures of it, which are in their very nature disappointing, is in constant search of 
care\ solicitude', remorse', and coHfusion\" 

" To advise the ignorant\ relieve the needy\ comfort the afBicted', are 
duties that fail in our way almost every day of our hves." 

" Those evil spirits, w^ho, by long custom, have contracted in the body 
habits of lust' and sensuality^; malice', and revenge"*; an aversion to every 
thing that is good\ just\ and laudable', are naturally seasoned and prepared 
for pain and misery." 

** I am persuaded, that neither death', n®r life^; nor angels', nor princf- 
pahties', nor powers'*; nor things present', nor things to come^; nor height', 
nor depth\ nor any other creature', shall be able to separate us from the love 
ofGod.^" 

The reader who would wish to see a minute and ingenious investigation of 
the nature of these inflections, and the rules by which they are governed, m^iy 
consult Walker's Elements of Elocution. 

SECTION VIII. 

Manner of readmg- Verse. 
When we are reading verse, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the 
pauses justlyi The difficulty arises from the melody of verse, which dic- 
tates to the ear pauses or rests of its own : and to adjust and compound these 
properly with the pauses of the Sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend 
the understanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom 
meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauses that belong 
to the melody of verse : one is, the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, 
the caesural pause in or near the middle of it. With regard to the pause at 
the end of the line, which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme ren- 
ders this always sensible ; and in some measure compels us to observe it in our 
pronunciation. In respect to blank verse, we ought also to read it so as to 
make every line sensible to the ear : for, what is the use of melody, or for 
what end has the poet composed in verse, if, in reading his lines, we suppress 
his numbers, by omitt/ng the final pause ; and degrade them, by our pronun» 
ciation, into mere prose? At the'same time that we attend to thi* pause, 
€Yery appearance of sing-son^ and tone niii^t be carefully guarded ^ga'jist 



Ii^TRODUCTION. xiii 

The close of the hne where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought not to 
be marked by such a tone as is used in finishing- a sentence ; but, without 
either fall or elevation of the voice, it should be denoted only by so slight a 
suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one line to an- 
other, without injuring* the meaning. 

The other kind of melodious pause, is that which falls somewhere about 
the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistichs ; a pause, not so 
great as that which belongs to the close of the line, but still sensible to an 
ordinary ear. This, which is called the c^sural pause, may fall, in English 
heroic verse, after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllable in the, line. \'\Tiere the 
verse is so constructed, that this c^sural pause coincides vrith the slightest 
pause or division in the sense, the line can be read eai^iiy 5 as in the two fas 
verses of Pope's Messiah : 

" Ye nymphs of SoIvDia^^ I liegin the song ; 

*' To lieav'niy them'es^\ sublimer strains belong." 

But if it should happen that w'ords v/hich have so strict and intimate a con ■ 
nexion, as not to bear even a moraentaiy separation, are divided from onf- 
another by this cassural pause, Vv'e then feel a sort of straggle between the 
sense and the sound, which renders it difficult to read such Ihies harmoniously 
The rule of proper pronunciation in such cases, is to regard only the paase 
which the sense forms; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of 
the c^sural. pause may make the line sound somewhat unharmoniously : but 
the effect would be much worse, if the s^ense were sacrificed to the sound. 
For instance, in the following lines of IMilton, 



' What in me is dark, 



" Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." 

The sense clearly dictates the pause after illumine, at the end of tlie thiid 
syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accordinglj' ; though, if the 
melody only were to be regarded, illiimine should be connected with what 
follows, and the pause not made till the fourtii or sixth syllable. So in ihe 
following hne of Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 

" I sit, with sad civility I read. 

The ear plainly points out the cassural pause as falling after sad,, the fourth 
syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause there, so as to 
separate sad and civiliiy. The sense admits of no other pause than after the 
second syllable sit, which therefore must be the only pause made in reading 
this part of the sentence. 

Tnere is another mode of dividing some verses, by introducing what inay be 
called demi-caesuras, which require very slight pauses ; and which the reader 
should manage vrith judgment, or he will be apt to fall into an aiiected sing- 
song mode of pronouncing verses of this kind. The following lines cxemphiy 
the demi-cEesma : 

" Warms' in the sun", refreshes' in the breeze. 
" Glows' in the stars", and blossoms' in the trees ; 
" Lives' through all life" ; extends' throusfli all extent, 
" Spreads' undivided", operates' unspent." 

Before the conclusion of this introduction, the Compiler takes the liberty tc 
recommend to teachers, to exercise their pupils in discovering and explaining 
t\'^ emphatic words, and the proper tones and pauses, of every portion as- 
signed them to read, previously to their being called out to the performance. 
These preparatory lessons, in which they should be regularly examined, wiU 
improve their judgment and taste ; prevent the practice of reading witljcut 
attention to the subject; and e?tablish'a habit of readily discovering the mcEi> 
ing, force, and beauty, of every sentence thev peruse.' 

B 



CONTENTS. 

PART I. 

PIECES IJV FEOSE. 



CHAPTER I. p^« 

Select Sentences and Paragraphs « . 17 

CHAPTER II. 

J^arrat.ive Pieces. 

Sect, 1. No rank or possessions can make the guilty mind happy ,28 

2 Change of external condition often adverse to virtue 29 

3 Hainan ; or the miserj' of pride ,30 

4. Lady Jane Grey 31 

h. Ortogrul ; or the vanity of riches S3 

C. The hill of science L'5 

7. The journey of a Jay; a picture of human life 3? 

CHAPTER in. 

Uidactic Pieces. 

5^c<*{. 1. The impovtar.ce of a good education 40 

2. On graiitude 41 

3. On forgiveness » . . . , i^. 

4. Motives to the practice of gentleness 4*2 

5. A suspicious temper the source of misery to its possessor 43 

U. Comforts of rehgion . . 44 

7. Diiudence of our abilities a mark of wisdom . , ib. 

8. On the importance of order in the distribution of our time 45 

9. The dignity of virtue amidst corrupt exanjples 4.(1 

]«{. The mortifications of vice greater than those of virtue 47 

11. On contentnient 48 

H. Rank and riches afford no ground for envy . 5il 

•33. Patience under provocations our interest as well as duty ..... 51 

14. Moderation m our wislies recommended ^*2 

15. Ouiniscience and omnipresence of the Deity, the sr)urce of consola- 

tion to good men 54 



CHAPTER IV. 

.Argumentative Pieces. 
Sect- 1. Happiness is founded in rectitiide of conduct 

2. Virtue and piety man's highest interest . 

3. The injustice of an uncharitable spirit . 

4. The misfortunes of men mostly chargeable 

5. On disinterested friendship 

S- On the immortality of the soui .... 



on themselves 



^cct. 1. 
.)_ 

3. 

.4. 



CHAPTER y. 

Descriptive Pieces. 

The Seasons 

The cataract of Niagara, in Canada, North Amer 

The giOito of Antiparos 

The grotto of Antiparos, continued . 
Earthqnake at Catanca 



Charity 



Prosperity is redoubled to a good man 
On the beauties of the Psalms . . . 
Character of Alfre<4, king of England 
Character of Queen Elizabeth . . . 

The slavery of vice 

Tlie man of integrity 

Gejuleiiess 



57 
58 
iJ). 

i>:2 



6i 
05 






71 
75 
73 



Sect. 



CHAPTER VI. 
Pathetic Pieces. 

1. Trial a«d execution of the Earl of Strafford "95 

2. Aa eraiaeat insliuice of tf ue fortitude of miiad f7 



C0NTE^"1^. 15 

Page 

Sect. 3. The good man's comfort in affliction "JS 

4. The close of life ^• 

5. Exalted society, and the renewal of virtuous connections, two sources 

of future felicity ^ 

6. The clemency and amiable character of the patriarch Joseph .... 81 

7. Altamont ' ^2 

CHAPTER VII. 

Dialogues. 

Sect. 1. Democritus and Heraclitus ^ 

2. Dionysius, Pythias, and Damon ' * ' ^ 

3. Locke and Bayle 87 

CHAPTER VIII. 

PiLblic Speeches. 

gect. 1. Cicero against Verres 91 

2. Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imploring their protection 

against Jusjurtha S4 

3. The Apostle Paul's noble defence before Festus and Agrippa 9f3 

4. Lord Mansfield's speech in the House of Lords, 1770, on the bill for 

preventing the delays of justice, by claiming the privilege of parliament 07 

5. An address to young persons 10<i 

CHAPTER IX. 

Promiscuous Pieces, 

Sect. 1. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1638 103 

2. Letter from Pliny to Germinius 105 

3. Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus, on the death of an amiable young 

woman . 106 

4. On Discretion .... 107 

5. On the government of our thoughts 109 

6. On the evils which flow from unrestrained passions 110 

7. On the proper state of our temper with respect to one another .... Ill 

8. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures 113 

9. Reflections occasioned by a review of the blessings pronounced by Christ 

on his disciples, in his sermon on the mount " ib. 

10. Schemes of life often illusory . 114 

11. The pleasures of virtuous sensibility . . 115 

12. On the true honour of man 117 

13. The influence of devotion on the happiness of life . 118 

14. The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively considered . . 119 
m. On the power of custom, and the uses to which it may be applied . . 121 

16. The pleasures resulting from a proper use of our faculties 122 

17. Description of candour 123 

18. On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on worldly 

pleasures 124 

19. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human life 126 

20. Scale of beings 127 

21. Trust in the care of Providence recommended . . 129 

22. Piety and gratitude enliven prosperity 130 

23. Virtue, wlien deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence of fortune . 132 

24. The speech of Fabric! us, a Roman ambassador, to king Pyrrh us . . . 133 

25. Character of James I. king of England 134 

26. Charles V. emperor of Germany, resigns his dominions, and retires 

from the world .... ib, 

27. The same subject continued , . 137 



PART II, 

PIECES IjY poetry. 

CHAPTER L 

Select Sentences and Paragraphs. PdgB 

Sect 1. Short and easy sentences igg 

2. Verses in which the lines are of different length 140 

3. Verses containing exclamations, interrogations, and parentheses . . , 142 

4. Verses in various forms 143 

5. Verses in which sound corresponds to signification 145 

6. Paragraphs of greater length 146 



16 COxNTENTS. 

CHAPTER II. 
Narrative Pieces. Paffs 

Sect. i. The bear and the be€S 148 

2. The nightingale and the glow-worm 149 

3. The trials of virtue ij,, 

4. The youth and the philosopher 151 

5. Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to rest 152 

6. Religion and death 154 

CHA.PTER in. 

Didactic Pieces. 

Sect. 1. The vanity of wealth 15g 

2. Nothing formed in vain , . n,^ 

2. On pride I57 

4. Cruelty to brutes ceKSured fj, 

5. A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of Matthew . . .' 158 

6. The death of a good man a strong incentive to virtue 159 

7. Reflections on a future state, from a review of winter ii). 

8. Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation 3 GO 

9. On procrastination - 101 

10. That philosophy, which stops at secondary causes, reproved . ... 162 

11. Indignant sentiments on national prejudices and hatred ; and on slavery 163 

CHAPTER IV. 

Descriptive Pieces. 

Sect. 1. The morning in summer . . '. 164 

2. Rural sounds, as well as rural sights, delightful ., . . fo. 

3. The rose 165 

4. Care of birds for their young ib. 

5. Liberty and slavery contrasted . 166 

G, Charity. A paraphrase on the 13th chapter to the First Corintliians 167 

7. Picture of a good man 168 

8. The pleasures of retirement 169 

9. The pleasure and ber.efit of an improved and well-directed imagiaation 170 

CHAPTER V. 

Pathetic Pieces. 

Sect. 1. The hermit , 171 

2. The beggar's petition 172 

3. Unhappy close of life . 173 

4. Elegy to pity 174 

5. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary 

abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez 2^. 

6. Gratitude 175 

7. A man perishing in the snow; from vdience reflections are raised 

on the miseries of life 177 

8. A morning hymn 178 

CHAPTER VI. 

Promiscuous Pieces. 

Sect. 1. Ode to content 179 

2. The shepherd and the philosopher 160 

3. The road to happiness open to all men 182 

4. The goodness of Providence 183 

5. The Creator's works attest his greatness ib. 

6. Address to the Deity 184 

7. The pursuit of happiness often ill directed 185 

8. The fire-side 188 

9. Providence vindicated in the present state of man 187 

10. Selfishness reproved 188 

11. Human frailty ... 189 

12. Ode to Peace 190 

13. Ode to Adversity ib. 

14. The Creation required to praise its Author . . . . ,^, 19! 

15. The universal p/ayer ., 193 

IC). Conscience • 194 

17. On an infant . »*• 

18. The cuckoo 195 

19. Day. A pastoral in three parts ..••.••..«•••• ib. 

20. The order of Nature . , . 197 

21. Confidence in Divine Protection 199 

22. Hymn, on a review of the seasons « • * . . » . ii>. 

28. Ofl solitude ..*......» a ........... 30^4 



THE ENGLISH READER. 



PART I. 

PIECES IJV FROSE. 

CHAPTER I. 

SKLiic r SilNTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. 



SECTION L 

1. DILIGENCE, industry, and proper improvement of time, 
are material duties of the young. 

2. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable 
occupations of youth. 

3. Whatever useful or engaging endo^^nnents we possess, viitue 
is requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. 

4. V irtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished and 
flourishing manhood. 

5. Sincerity and truth form the basis of every virtue, 

6. Disappointments and distress are often blessings in disguise, 
r. Change and alteration fonii the ver}^ essence of the world, 

8. True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp 
and noise. 

9. In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must be our 
first study to rectify inward disorders. 

10. Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heait. 

11. From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destroy plea- 
sure. 

12. A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excel- 
" lent safeguards of the" mind, in this uncertain and changing state, 

13. There is nothing, except simpUcity of intention, and purity 
of principle, that can stand the test of near approach and strict 
examination. 

14. The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated, by the 
relief which it can bring us in the time of our greatest need. 

15. No person who has once yielded up the government of his 
mind, and given loose rein to his desires and passions, can tell how 
far they may car?^/ him. 

16. TranquiUity of mind is always most likely to be attained, 
when the busiuess of the world is tempered with thoughtM arid 
serious retreat, 

17. He who would act like a wise man, and build his house on 
the rock, and not on the sand, should contemplate human life, not 
only in the sunshine, but in the shade. 

J^OTE. 
tn tlie first chapter, the compiler has Exhibited sentences in ,r great variety of ©ob- 
struction, and in all the diversity of punctuation. If well practised upon, he pre- 
sumes they will fully prepare the young reader for the various pauses, inflections, 
and modulations of voice, which the succeeding pieces require. The Authors 
*' English Exercises," under the head of Punctuation, will afford the learner additional 
fcopg for ImfiroYing himself in reading sentences and paragraphs variously coi^tructeA. 

B2 



18 THE ENGLISH READER- Part 1, 

18. Let usefulness and beneficence, not ostentation and vanity, 
direct the train of your pursuits. 

19. To maintaiii a steady and unbroken mind, amidst all the 
shocks of the world, marks a great and noble spirit. 

20. Patience, by presendng composure within, resists the im- 
pression which trouble makes from without. 

21. Compassionate affections, even when they draw tears fix)m 
our eye3 for human misery, convey satisfaction to the heart. 

22. They who have nothing to give, can often afford relief to 
others, by niipailing what they feel. 

23. bur ignorance of what is to come, and of what is really good 
or evil, should correct anxiety about worldly success. 

24. The veil which covers from our sight the events of succeed- 
ing years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy. 

2J. The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futuritv, 
consists in a well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a cheerfiil 
submission to the will of Heaven. 

SECTION IL 

1. The chief misfortunes that befall us in life, can be traced to 
some vices or follies which we have committed. 

2. Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we 
should often fnid them peopled with the victims of intemperance 
and sensuality, and witli the children of vicious indolence and sloth. 

3. To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opinion of the 
world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are three things 
so very different, as rarely to coincide. 

4. Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed floating on the 
stream of time, and forced to follow every new direction of the cur- 
rent. 

5. The coriTipted temper, and the guilty passions of the bad, frus- 
trate the effect of ever^^ advantage which the world confers on them. 

6. The external misfortunes of life, disappointments, poverty, 
and sickness, are light in comparison of those inward distresses of 
raindj occasioned by folly, by passion, and by guilt. 

7. No station is so high, no power so great, no character so un- 
])lemished, as to exempt men from the attacks of rashness, ma- 
lice, or envy, 

8. Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not s(> 
much from what men are taught to know, as from what they are 
brought to feel, 

9. He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet has 
no feeling for the high objects of religion, no heart to admire and 
adore the great Father of the universe, has reason to distrust the 
tnitli and delicacy of his sensibility. 

10. When, upon rational and sober inquiiy, we have establish- 
ed our principles, let us not suffer them to be shaken by the scoffs 
of the licentious, or the cavils of the sceptical. 

11. When we observ^e any tendency to treat religion or morals 
with disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be a sure mdication of a 
perverted understanding, or a depraved heart. 

\% Every degree of guilt incurred by ^yielding to temptation^ 
tends to debase the mind, and to weakea the generous and benevo 
ent principles of human nature- 



Chali. 1. SELECT SENTENCES, &c. x9 

13. Luxmy, pride, and vanity, have frequently as much infiu- 
eiice in cormpting the sentiments of the great, as ignorance, bigot- 
ry, and prejudice, have in misleading the opinions of the multitude. 

14. jNlixed as the present state is, reason and religion pronounce, 
that generally, if not always, there is more happiness than misen', 
more pleasure than pain, m the condition of man. 

15. Society, when formed, requires distinctions of propeity, di- 
versity of conditions, subordination of ranks, and a multiphcity of 
cx:cupations, in order to advance the general good. 

16^ That the temper, the sentiments, the morality, and, in gene- 
ral, the whole conduct and character of men, are influenced by 
tlie example and disposition of the persons with whom they assvo- 
ciate, is a^ reflection Avhich has long since passed into a proverb, 
and been ranked among the standing maxims of human wisdom, 
in cill ages of the world. 

SECTION III. 

1. The desire of improvement discovers a liberal mind, and is 
connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues, 

^. Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind ; and leaves 
it open to every pleasing sensation. 

3. Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the tempe- 
rate : in the midst of his studied refinements, the voluptuary lan- 
guishes. 

4. Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners; 
and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate 
the burden of common misery. 

5. That gentleness which* is the characteristic of a good man, 
has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart : and. let me add, 
nothing, except vv hat flows from the hea.rt, C8tn render even exter 
nal manners truly pleasing. 

6. Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be habit 
ually active; not breaking forth occasionally with a transient lustre, 
like' the blaze of a comet ; but regular in its returns, like the light 
of day: not like the aromatic gale, which sometimes feasts the 
sense; l^ut like the ordinary breeze, which purifies the air, and 
renders it healthful. 

7. The h?ippiness of every man depends more upon the state of 
his ov/n mind, than upon any one external circumstance : nay, more 
than upon all external things put together. 

8. In no station, in no period, let us think ourselves secure from 
the dangers which spring from our passions. Every age, and every 
station they beset ; from youth to gray hairs, and from the peasant 
to the prince. 

9 Riches and pleasures a,re the chief temptations to criminal 
deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may veiy possibly over- 
whelm us with unforeseen miseries. Those pleasures may cut 
short our health and life. 

10. He who is accustomed to turn aside from the world, and 
commune with himself in retirement, will, sometimes at least, 
Jiear the truths which the multitude do not tell him. A more sound 
tnstinicter will lift his voice, and awaken within the heart those 
latent suggestions, which tiie world had ovei'powered and siip* 
pressed. 



^ THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

11. Amusement often becomes the business, instead of the relax- 
ation, of. young persons: it is then highly pernicious. 

12. He that waits for an opportunity, to do much at once, may 
breathe out his life in idle wishes ; and regret, in the last hour, \m 
useless intentions and barren zeal. 

13. The sj)irit of true religion breathes mildness and affability. 
It gives a native, unaffected ease to the behaviour. It is social, 
kind, and cheerful; far removed from that gloomy and illiberal 
superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the temper, dejects 
the spirit, and teaches men to fit themselves for another world, 
by neglecting the concerns of this, 

14. Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to h^ 
Interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the thought of ac- 
quiring any advantage by his prejudice. 

15. Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent ^ al- 
ways afflicted, would be sullen or despondent. Hopes and fears, 
joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his life, as both to 
,^ve room for worldly pursuits, and to recall, from time to time, 
the admonitions of conscience. 

SECTION IV. 

1. Time once past never returns: the moment which is lost, is 
lost for evei*. 

2. There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure us of undis- 
turbed rest ; nor so powerful, as to afford us constant protection, 

3. The house of feasting too often becomes an avenue to the 
house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, is the interval be- 
tween them. 

4. It is of great imf)oii:ance to us, to form a proper estimate of 
human life ; without either loading it with imaginary evils, or ex- 
pecting from it greater advantages than it is able to yield. 

5. Among all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and intimate 
connection. Wlien any one of them is adopted into our family, it 
seldom quits until it has fathered upon us all its kindred. 

6. Charity, lilce the sun, brightens every object on which it 
shines; a censorious disposition casts eveiy character into the 
darkest shade it will bear. 

7. Many men mistake the love, for the practice of virtue ; and 
^re not so much good men as the friends of goodness. 

8. Genuine virtue has a language that speaks to every heart 
throughout the world. It is a language which is understood by all. 
In every region, every climate, the homage paid to it is the same. 
In no one sentiment were ever mankind more generally agreed. 

9. I'he appearances of our security are frequently deceitful, 

10. When our sky seems most settled and serene, in some miob* 
served quarter gathers the little black cloud m which the tempest 
ferments, and prepares to discharge itself on our head. 

11. The man of true fortitude may be compared to the castle 
built on a rock, which defies the attacks of surrounding waters: the 
man of a feeble and timorous spirit, to a hut placed on the shore, 
which every wind shakes, and every wave overflows. 

12. Nothing is so inconsistent with self-possession as violent an- 
ger. It ovei-powers reason ; confounds our ideas ; distorts the ap- 
pearance, and blackens the colour of every object. By the storms 



Chatt. 1. SELECT SENTENCES, 8cc, 21 

which it raises within, and by the mischiefs which it occasions 
without, it generally brings on the passionate and revengeful man, 
gi-eater misery than he can bring on the object of his resentment. 

13. The palace of virtue has, in all ages, been represented as 
placed on the summit of a hill; in the ascent of which, labour is 
requisite, and difficulties are to be surmomited; and where a con- 
ductor is needed, to direct our way, and to aid our steps. 

14. In judging of others, let us always think the best, and employ 
the spirit of charity and candour. But in judging of ourselves, we 
ought to be exact and severe. 

15. Let him, who desires to see others happy, make haste to give 
while his gift can be enjoyed ; and remember, that every moment 
of delay takes away something from the value of his benefa.ction. 
And let him who proposes his o^vn happiness reflect, that while he 
forms his purpose, the day rolls on, and 'Hhe night cometh, when 
no man can work." 

16. To sensuptl persons, hardly any thing is what it appears to 
be: and what flatters most, is always farthest from reality. There 
are voices which sing around them ; but v/hose strains allure to 
iTiin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is in eveiy dish. 
There is a couch which invites them to repose ; but to slumber 
upon it, is death. 

17. If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is not 
solely to his houses and lands, to his equipage and his retinue we 
are to look. LTnless we could see farther, and discern what joy, 
or what bitterness, his heart feels, we can pronounce little concern- 
ing him. 

18. The book is well written ; and I have perused it with plea- 
sure and profit. It shows, first, that true devotion is rational and 
well founded ; next^ that it is of the highest importance to eveiy 
other part of religion and virtue; r.nd, lastly, that it is most condu- 
cive to our happiness. 

19. There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to look 
back on a life usefully and virtuously employed ; to trace our own 
progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor 
sorrow. It ought therefore to be the care of those who wish to . 
pass the last hours with comfort, to lay up such a treasure of pleas- 
ing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that time, which is to 
depend wholly upon the fund already acquired, 

SECTION V. 

1. What avails the show of external liberty, to one who has 
lost the government of himself ? 

2. ^ He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be less 
qualified to live well to-morrow. 

3. Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised to a situ- 
ation which flatters his passions, but which connipts his princi- 
ples, disorders his temper, and finally oversets his virtue ? 

4. What misery does the vicious nian secretly endure ! — ^Adver- 
sity! how blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver m comparison 
with those of guilt ! 

5. When we have no pleasure in goodness, we may with cer- 
tainty conclude the reason to be, that our pleasure is aU deiive^l 
from an opposite quarter. 



S2 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. 

6. Hov/ strangely are the opinions of men altered, by a change 
ill tlieir condition ! 

T. How many have had reason to be thankful, for being disap- 
pointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but which, if 
successfully accomphshed,- they have afterwards seen would have 
occasioned their rum ! 

^ 8. What are the actions which afford in the remembrance a ra- 
tional satisfaction? Are they the pursuits of sensual pleasure, the 
riots of jollity, or the displays of show and vanity ? No: I appeal 
to your heaits, my friends, if what you recollect with most plea- 
sure, are not the innocent, the virtuous, the honourable parts of 
your past life. 

9. The present employment of time should frequently be an 
object of thought. About what are we now busied ? What is the 
ultimate scope of our present pursuits and cares ? Can we justify 
them to ourselves? Are they likely to produce any thing that 
will survive the moment, and bring forth some fiTiit for futurity? 

10. Is it not strange (says an ingenious writer,) that some pei^ 
sons should be so delicate as not to bear a disagreeable picture in 
the house, and yet, by their behaviour, force every face they see 
about them, to wear the gloom of uneasiness and discontent? 

11. If we are now in health, peace and safety; without any par- 
ticular or uncommon evils to afflict our condition ; what more can 
we reasGDably look for in this vain and uncertain world? How 
little can the greatest prosperity add to such a state? Will any 
future situation ever m^ake us happy, if now, v/ith so few cause's 
of grief, we imagme ourselves miserable ? - The evil lies in the 
state of our mind, not m our condition of fortune ; and by no alter- 
ation of circumstances is likely to be remedied, 

12. When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious 
com.panions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to engross their 
time, and to stir up their passions ; the day of iTiin, — let them take 
heed, and beware ! tlie day of iiTCcoverable ruin begins to di^w 
nigh. Fortune is squandered ; health is broken ; friends are offend- 
ed, affronted, estranged ; aged parents, perhaps, sent afflicted and 
mourning to the dust. -, 

13. On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the slothful and 
lazy ? To whom are the hours so lingering ? Who are so often 
devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to every expedient, which 
can help them to get rid of themselves ? Instead of producing 
tranquillity, indolence produces a fretful restlessness of mind ; gives 
rise to craVings which are never satisfied ; nourishes a sickly, ef- 
feminate delicacy, which sours and corrupts every pleasure, 

SECTION VI. 

1. W^E have seen the husbandman scattering his seed upon 
the fuiTowed ground ! It springs up, is gathered into his bams, 
and crowns his labours with joy and plenty. — Thus the man who 
distributes his fortune with generosity and prudence, is amply re- 
paid by the gratitude of those whom he obliges, by the approba- 
tion of his own mind, and by the favour of Heaven. 

2. Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to hap- 
piness; intemperanceii by enervating them, ends generally in misery. 

3. Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious \ but an 



Chaji, 1. SELECT SENTENCES, 8cc. 2S 

ill one, more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a prince ; 
and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. 

4. An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to use 
the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his evening declination : 
he remits his splendour, but retains his magnitude ; and pleases 
more, though he dazzles less. 

5. If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they 
would exchange their entire situations with the persons envied, (I 
mean their minds, passions, notions^ as well as their persons, for- 
tunes, and dignities,) — ^I presume the self-love, common to human 
nature, would generally make them prefer their own condition. 

6. We have obliged some persons :— verj^ well ! — what would 
we have more ? Is not the consciousness of doing good, a suffi- 
cient reward ? 

7. Do not hurt yourselves or others, by the pursuit of pleasure. 
Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not only as sensi- 
tive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but social ; not 
only as social, but immortal. ' 

8. Art thou poor ? — Show thyself active and industrious, peace- 
able and contented. Art thou wealthy ? — Show thyself beneficer*t 
and charitable, condescending and humane. 

9. Though religion removes not all the evils of life, though it 
promises no continuance of undisturbed prosperity, (which indeed 
it were not salutary for man always to enjoy,) yet, if it mitigates 
the evils which necessarily belong to our state, it may justly be said 
to give '^ rest to them who labour and are heavy laden." 

10. What a smiling aspect does the love oi parents and chil- 
drcn, of brothers and sisters, of friends and relations, give to every 
surrounding object, and evei^' returning day ! With what a lustrvz 
does it gild even the small habitation, where this p]acid inter- 
course dwells ! Avhere such scenes of heartfelt satisfaction succeed 
uninterruptedly to one another ! 

11. How many clear marks of benevolent intention appear eveiy 
where around us ! What a profusion of beauty and ornament is 
poured forth on the face of nature ! What a magpiiicent spectacle 
presented to the view of man! What supply contrived for his 
wants ! What a variety of objects set before him, to gratify his 
senses, to employ his understanding, to entertain his imagination, 
to cheer and glaclden his heart ! 

12. The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of conso- 
lation to good men. Under trouble, it sooths their minds ; amidst 
temptation, it suppoits their virtue ; and, in their dying moments, 
enables them to say, '« O death ! where is thy sting r O grave ! 
where is thy victory'?" 

SECTION vn. 

1. Agesilaus, king of Sparta, being asked, ^' What things he 
thought most proper for boys to learn," answered, ** Those which 
they ought to practise when they come to be men." A wiser than 
Agesilaus has inculcated the same sentiment: " Train up a child 
hi the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart 
from it" 

2. An Itahan philosopher expressed in his motto, that "tinie 
was his estate," An estate indeed which will produce nothing 



24 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1, 

without cultivation ; but which will always abundantly repay the 
labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no 
part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with 
noxious plants, or laid out for show, rather than use. 

3. When Aristotle was asked, " What a man could gain by tell- 
ing a falsehood," he rephed, '* Not to be credited when he speaks 
the truth." 

4. L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us that a number of frolic- 
some boys were one day watching frogs, at the side of a pond ; and 
that, as any of them put their heads above the water, they pelted 
them down again with stones. One of the frogs, appealing to the 
humanity of the boys, made this striking observation ; ** Children, 
you do not consider, that though this may be sport to you, it is 
death to us, " 

5. Sully, the great statesman of France, always retained at his 
table, in his most prosperous days, the same frugality to which he 
had been accustomed in early life. He was frequently reproach- 
(^d, by the corn-tiers, for this simplicity; but he used to reply to 
them, in the words of an ancient philosopher ! ''If the guests'are 

I men of sense, there is sufficient for them : if they are not, I can 

* very well dispense with their company. " 

6*. Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of his 
mind, was not negligent of his external appearance. His clermli- 
ness resulted from those ideas of order and decency which goveni- 
ed ail his actions ; and the care which he took of his health, from 
his desii'e to preserv^e his mind free and tranquil. 

7. Eminently pleasing and honourable was the friendship be- 
tween David and Jonathan. ''I am distressed for thee, my bro- 
ther Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving David ; "very 
pleasant Irast thou been to^ me : thy love ibr me v/as wonderful'; 
passing the love of women." 

S. Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wounded 
by a musket ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. He was 
carried about a mile and a half, to the camp ; and being fair.t 
with the loss of blood, and probably parched with thirst through 
the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was immediately 
brought to him : but, as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a 
poor "wounded soldier, who happened at that ir.stant to be carried 
bv him, looked up to it with wishiul eyes. The gallant and gene- 
rous Sidney tooli tlie bottle from his mouth, and delivered it to tlie 
soldier, saying, " Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." 

9. Alexander the 'Great demanded of a pirate, whom he liad 
tciken, by whj.t right he infested the seas ? ''By the same right," 
replied lie, "that Alexander enslaves the w^orld. But I am called 
a robber, because I have only one sm'cdl vessel; ar.d he is styled 
a conqueror, because he comniands great fleets and armies." We 
too often judge of men by the splendour, and not by the ment of 
their actions, 

10. Antoninus Pius, the Roman Emperor, v/as an amiable and 
good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to inflame him 
with a passion for military glory, he used to answer : "That he 
more desired the preservation of one subject, than the destruction 
of a thousand enemies. " 

It Men are too often ingenious in making themselves miaera- 



aia;i. 1. SELECT SENTENCES, Sec ^B 

ble, by argTavating to their own fancy^ beyond bounds, all the 
evils w'jiich tliey endure. They compai^ themselves with none 
but those whom they imagine to be more happy; and complain, 
th it upon them alone has tallen the whole load of human soitows, 
Would they look w^ith a more impartial eye on the world, they 
would see themselves surroirnded v/ith sufferers; and find that 
tliey are only drinking out of that mixed cup, wh^ch Pro-^.idence 
lias prepared for all. — "I will restore thy daughter again to life," 
sciid tlie eastern sage, to a prince who grieved immoderately for 
the Loss of a beloved child, ^* provided tlicu art able to engi^ave '^•u 
her tomb, the names of three persons who have ne\er mourned.' 
The prince made iriquiry after ^such persons; but found the inquiiy 
\ain, and was silent. 

SECTiON VIII. 

1. He that hath no iiile over his own spirit, is like a city that is 
broken down, and without walls. 

2. A soft answer tumeth away wTath ; but grievous words stir tip 
anger. 

3. Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and 
-hatred therewith. 

4. Pride goeth before destnicticn ; and a haughty spirit before 
a fall. 

5. Kear counsel, and receive msti-uction, tliat thou maycst be 
truly wise. 

6. Faithful are the woimds of a friend ; but the kisses of an ene- 
my are deceitful. Open rebuke is better than secret love. 

7. Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit ? There is more 
hope of a fool than of him. 

8. He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty ; and he 
that ruleth his spirit^ than he that taketh a c\\x. 

9. He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth'to the Lord; that 
which he hath given, wnil he pay him again. 

10. If thine enemy be hungi'v, give him bread to eat ; and if 
he be thinsty, give hi'm water to drink. 

11. He that planted the ear, shall he not hear } He that formed 
the eye, shall he not see ? 

12.^ I have been young, and now^ I am old ; yet have I never seen 
the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. 

13. It is better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, 
than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. 

14.^1 have seen the wicked in great power; and spreading him- 
self like a green bav-tree. Yet he passed away : I sought him, 
out he cou^.d not be found. 

15. Happy is the man that fmdeth wisdom. Length of days is'' ' 
rn her right hajid ; a.nd in her left hand, riches and honour. 'Her ^ 
vv^ays are wa}'s of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. 

16.^ How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell toge- 
ther in unity ! It is like precious ointment : Like the dew of Her- 
nion, and the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion. 

17. The sluggard ^-nW not plough by reason of the cold; he 
shall therefore beg m harvest, and have i:iothing. 

IS. I -went by the field of the slothful, and by the \4neyard of 
ne man voij of 'ii^.deTstandine: ; and lo 1 it was all ^own over 

6 



S6 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

with thom'5 ; nettles had covered its face ; and the stone wall was 
broken down. Then I saw, and considered it well.^ I looked upon 
%, and received instruction. 

19. Honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time ; 
nor that which is measured by number of years :— But wisdom is 
the gray hair to man ; and an unspotted life is old age. 

20. Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers ; and 
serve him v/ith a perfect heart, and with a willing mind. If thou 
seek him, he will be found of thee ; but if thou forsake him, he 
will cast thee off for ever. 

SECTION IX. 

1. That every day has its pains and soitows is universally expe- 
rienced, and almost universally confessed. But let us not attend 
only to mournful truths : if we look impailially about us, we shall 
find, that eveiy day has likewise its pleasures and its joys. 

2. We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men. 
The Author of all good nourishes much piety and virtue in hearts 
that are unknown to us ; and beholds repentance ready to spring 
up among many, whom v/e consider as reprobates. 

o. No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the sight 
of his Creator. In our several stations, we are all sent foi'th to l^e 
labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly Father. E\'ery maji has 
his work allotted, his talent committed to him ; by the due im- 
provement of \fhich he may, in one way or other, serve God, 
promote vhtue, and be useful in the world. 

4. The love of praise should be preserved mider proper subor- 
dination to the principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful motive to 
action/; but when allowed to extend its influence too far, it cor- 
rupts the whole character, and |)roduces guilt, disgrace, and mise- 
ry. To be entirely destitute of it, is a deiect. To be governed by 
it, is depravity. The proper adjustment of the several principles 
of action in human nature is a matter that deserves our highest at- 

, tention. For when any one of them becomes either too weak or too 
strong, it endangers both our virtue and our happiness. 

5. The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once ob- 
tained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet. They 
make him feel that he is subject to various, contradictory, anil 
imperious masters, who often pull him diiferert ways. His soul is 
rendered the receptacle of many repugnant and jarring dispositions; 
and resembles some barbaix)us country, cantoned out into different 
principalities, which are continually waging v/ar on one another. 

6. Diseases, poverty, disappointment, 2: A shame, are far from 
being, in every instance, the unavoidable doom of man. They are 
nmch more frequently the offspring of his ov,m misguided choice. 
Intemperance engenders disease, sloth produces poverty, pride 
creates disaxjpointments, and dishonesty exposes to shame. T]wi 
un^^Dverned passions of men betra}^ tbem into a thousand follies ; 
their follies into crimes ; and their crimes into nnisfortunes. 

7. When we reilect on the raan-y distresses which abound in hu- 
man life ; on the scanty proportion of happiness which any man is 
liere allowed to enjoy ; on the small difit rence which the diversi- 
ty of fortune makes'^on that scanty proportion ; it is siiiprising, that 
envy should everliave been a prevalent passion among men, mucli 



aiafi 1. SELECT SENTENCES, Bcc ^ 

moi^ that it ihoiiid have prevailed among Chrlitians. Where 
so much is suffered in common, little room is left for envy. There 
is more occasion for pity and sympathy, and inclination to assist 
each other. 

8, At our first setting out in life, when yet unacquainted with 
the world and its snares, when every pleasure enchants with its 
smile, and e\ erv object shines vv^ith the gloss of novelty, let us be-- 
Ware of the seducing appearances which surround us ; and recol- 
lect what others have suiiered from the power of headstrong de- 
sire> If we allow any passion, even though it be esteemed inno^ 
cent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, our inward peace will be 
impaired. But if any, which has the taint of guilt, take early 
possession of our mind, we may date, from that moment, the ruin 
of our tranquillit;,^ ^ ^ -^ . 

9. Every man has some darling passion, which generally aifoi-ds 
the first inti-oduction to vice. The irregular gi-atifications, into 
which it occasionally seduces him, appear under the form of venial 
weaknesses ; and are indulged, in the beginning, with scrupulous- 
ness and reserve. But, by longer practice, these restraints weak- 
en, and the power of habit grows. One vice brings in another to 
its aici By a sort of natural affinity they copjiect and entwine 
themselves' together; till their roots come to be spread wide and 
tieep over all the soul. 



SECTION X. 

1. Whe:n^ce arises the misery of this present world ? It is not 
owing to our cloudy atmosphere, our changing seasons, and incle- 
ment skies. It is not owing to the debility of our bodies, or to the 
imequal distribution of the goods of fortune. Amidst all disadvan- 
tages of this kind^_ a pure, a steadfast, and enlightened mind, pos- 
sessed of strong virtue, could en°-,>y ?Xst^lf in peace, and smile at the 
impotent assaults of fortune ? . ni thr elements. It is within our- 
selves that misery has fixed its seat Our disordered hearts, our 
guilty passions, our violent prejudices, and misplaced desires, are 
the instrum.ents of the trouble which we endure. These shai-pen 
the darts which ad^xrsity wouM otherwise point in vain against us. 

2. While the vain and the licentious are revelling in the midst 
of vextravagance and riot, how little do they think of those scenes 
of sore distiT\ss which are passing at that moment throughout the 
world ; multitudes struggling for a poor subsistence, to support the 
'%vife and children v/hom they love, and v/ho look up to them 
with eager eyes for that bread which they can hardly procure ; 
multitudes groaning under sickness in desolate cottages, untended 
and unmoumed ; many, apparently in a better situation of life, 
pming away in secret with concealed griefs ; families weeping over 
the beloved friends whom they have lost, or in all the bitterness of 
anguish, bidding those who are just expiring the last adieu. 

3. Never adventure on too near a.n p.ppi-oach to what is evil. 
Faij^iliarizenot yourselves v/ith it, in the slightest instances, with- 
out ;&ar. liisten v/ith reverence to every reprehension of coil- 
sciejjce ; and preserve the most quick aaid accurate sensibility to 
right and wrong. If e\T.r your moral impressions begin to decay,- 
and your natural abhoiTence of guilt to lessen, you have ground 
to drcad that the ruin of \-irtue is fast approaching. 



23 THE ENGLISH READER. Part L 

4. By disappoiiitments and trials the violence of our passions is 
tamed, ar)d oiir n;iinds are formed to sobriety and reflection. In 
the varieties of life^ occasioned by the vicissitudes of worldly for- 
tune, we are inured to habits both of the active and the sutferijig 
virtues. How much soever we complain of the vanity of the worlds 
facts plainly show, that if its vanity were iess^ it could not ans^ver 
the puipose of salutary discipline. Unsatisfactory as it is, its plea- 
sures are still too apt to corrupt our hearts. How fatal then must 
the consequences have been, had it yielded us more complete en- 
joyment ? If, with ^dl its troubles, we are in danger of bemg too 
much attached to it, how entirely would it have seduced our alfcc- 
tions, if no troubles had been mAingled with its pleasures ? 

5. In seasons of distress or difficulty, to abandon ourselves to de- 
jection, carries no nriark of a great or a worthy mind. Instead of 
sinking under tix)uble, and declaring '*that his soid is weary of 
life," It becomes a wise and a good man, in the evil day, with finii- 
ness to maintain his post; to bear up against the storm; to have 
recourse to those advantages which, hi the worst of times, are 
always left to integrity and virtue ; and never to give up the hope 
that better days may yet arise. 

6. How many youn^ persons have at first set OMt in the world 
with excellent dispositions of neart ; generous, charitable, and hu- 
mane ; kind to their friends, and amiable among all with w^hom 
they had intercourse S And yet, hov/ often have we seen all those 
fair appearances unhappily blasted in the progress of life, merely 
thixxigh the influence of loose and coiTuptmg pleasures : and those 
very persons, who promised once to be blessings to the world, 
sunk down, in the end, to be the burden and nuisance of society! 

7. The most common pi'opensity of mankind, is, to store futurity 
•with whatever is agreeable to them ; especially in those periods 
of life, when imagination is lively, and liope is ardent. Lookmg for- 
'Ward to tlie year now begiiming, they are ready to promise them- 
selves much, from the foundations of prosperity which they have 
laid ; from the friendships and connexions which they have se- 
cured ; and from the plans of conduct v/hich they hav^ formed, 
Alas ! how deceitftil do all these dreams of happiness often prove! 
While many are saying in secret to their hearts, '*To-moiTOw 
shall be as this day, and more abundantly," we are obliged in re- 
turn to say to them ; *^ Boast not yourselves of to~morix)w ; for you 
know not what a day may bring forth !" 



CHAPTER H. 

NARRATIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

JVb rank or possessions can make the guilty mi7\d happy, 
1. DiONYSius, the tvr^t of Sicily, was far from being happy, 
though he possessed great ric\ies, and all the pleasures which 
-wealth and power could 'orocure. Damocles, one of his flatterers, 
deceived bv those specious appearances of happir.ess, took occa- 
sion to comblimeiiit him on the extent of his power, h/is treasures. 



Chafi. 1. NARRATIVE PIECES. m 

and royal magnincence : and declared that no monarch had ever 
been i^reater or happier than Dionysius. 

2. '*'Hast thou a mind, Damocles/' says the king, *'to taste 
tliisl " 



are, 

accepted the offer. The king ordered that a royal banquet : 
be prepared, and a gilded sofa, covered with rich embroidery, 
placed for his favourite. Sidebopa'ds, loaded with gold and silver 
plate of immense value, were arranged in the apartment. 

3. Pages of extraordinary beauty v/ere ordered to attend his ta- 
ble,, and to obey his commands with the utmost readiness, and thQ 
most profound submission. Fragrant ointments, chaplets-of flow* 
ers, and rich perfumes, were added to the entertainment The 
table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind, 
])amocles, intoxicated with pleasure, fancied himself among supe-* 
rior beings. 

4. But in the midst of aU this happiness, as he lay indulging him- 
self in state, he sees let down froni the ceiling, exactly over his 
head, a glittering svf ord hung by a single hair. The sight of im- 
pending clestraction.put a speedy end to his joy and revelling. The 
pomp of his attendance, the glitter c-f the carved plate, and the de- 
licacy of the viands, cease to afford himi an}- pleasure. 

. 5, He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table. He throws 
off the garland of roses. He hastens to remove from his dangerous 
situation ; and earnestly entreats the king tQ restore him to his for- 
mer humble condition, ha.ving no desire to enjoy any longer a hap- 
piness so terrible. 

6. By this device, Dionysius intimated to Damocles, hov\^ mise- 
rable he was in the m/ldst of all his treasures ; and in possession 
of all the honours and enjoyments which royalty could besto\\r, 

ClCSRO. 

SECTION IL 
Change of external condition is often adverse to virtue, 

1. In the days of Joram., king of Israel, fionrished the prophet 
Elisha. His character was so eminent, and his fa^ne so widely 
spread, that Benhadad, the king of Syria, though an idolater, sent 
to consult him, cciicerning the issue of a distemper which threat- 
ened his life. The messenger employed on this occasion was Ha- 
zael, who appea.rs to have been one of the piinces, or chief men 
of the Syrian court. 

2. Charged v%^ith rich gifts from, the king, he presents himself 
before the prophet; and accosts him in terais of the highest respect. 
During the conference which, they held together, Elisha fixed his 

' ' discerning, by 
he could n(k 




3. WhenHaz 
den emotion, 
barbarities, ^^ 

The soul of Hazael abhorred, at this time, the thoughts of Tmdty 
Uncornipted, as yet, bv ambition or greatness, his indignation rose 
at being thought capable of the savage actions which the prophet 
had mentioned ; and, w'th much warmth he replies; " But what ? 
is th}^ servant a dog, that he should do tl->is cfi-eat thine >" 

C2 



so THE ENGLIvSH READPLR. Part 1 

4. Elisha makes no return, but to pvoiiit ont a reinarkable change, 
whicli wasto take place in his condition ; '* The Loixl bath shown 
me, that thou shalt be king over Syria." In course of time, all 
that had been predicted came to pass. Hazael ascended the throne, 
and ambition took possession of his heart. *^He smote llie cliil- 
dren of Israel in ail their coasts. He oppressed them durin;^ all 
the days of king Jehoahaz :" and, from what is left on record ot liis 
actions, he plainly appears to have proved, what the prophet fore- 
saw him to be, a man of violence, cruelty, and blood. 

5. In this passage of history, an object is presented, which de- 
serves our gerious attention. ' We behold a man Avho, in one state 
of life, could not look upon certain crimes without surprise and 
horror ; w^ho knev/ so little of himself, as to believe it impossible 
for him ever to be concerned in committing them ; that same man, 
by a change of condition, and an ungTiarded state of mind, trans- 
formed in all his sentiments; and as he rose in greatness rising 
also in guilt ; till at last he completed that whole character of ini- 
quity, which he once detested. slaih, 

SECTION IIL 

Hajnan ; or, the iniset^j of pride. 

1. Ahasuerus, who is supposed to be the prince known among 
the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxes, had advanced 
to the chief dignity in his l*ingdom, Ham an, an Amalekite, who 
inherited all the ancient enmity of his race, to the Jewish nation. 
He appears, from Avhat is recorded of him, to have been a very 
"wicked minister. Raised to greatness without merit, he employed 
his power solely for the gratincation of his passions. 

2. As the honom^s which he possessed wxre next to royal, his 
pride v/as eveiy day fed w^ith that servile homage, wiiich is peculiar 
to Asiatic courts ; and all the servants of the king prostrated them- 
selves before him. In the midst of this general ad\ilation, one 
person only stooped not to Ham.an. 

S. This was Mordecai the Jew ; who, knowing this Amalekite to 
be an enemy to the people of (jod, and, w^ith virtuous indignation, 
despising that insolence of prosperity with which he saw him lifted 
up, "bowed not, nor did him reverence." On this appearance of 
disrespect from Mordecai, Haman *^v7as full of wrath: but he 
thought scorn to lay hands on Mordecai alone. " Personal revenge 
was not sufficient to satisfy him. 

4. So violent and black were his passions, that lie resolved to 
exterminate the whole nation to which Mordecai belonged. 
Abusing, for his cruel purpose, the favour of his credulous sove- 
reign, he obtained a decree to be sent forth, tliat, against a cer- 
tain day, all the Jews throughout the Persian dominions should be 
put to the sword, 

5, Meanwhile, confident of success, and blind to approaching 
rum, he continued exulting in his prosperity. In^dted by Aha- 
suerus to a royal banquet, which Esther the queen had prepared, 
'*he went forth that day joyful, and with a glad heart." But be- 
hold how slight an incident was sufficient to poison his joy ! As he 
went forth, he saw Mordecai in the king's gate ; and observed, 
that Ue still refused to do him homage; "He stood not up, nor 
was uiovcd for him ;" jilthough he w^ell k^cw^ the formiidable de^ 



Chafu 2. NARRATIVE PIECES. 31 

signs, whicii Ham an was preparing to execute. One private man,, 
v:ho despised his greatness, and disdained submission, while a 
whole kingdom trembled before him ; one spirit, which the utmost 
str .:tch of his power could neither subdue nor humble, blasted liis 
triumphs. His v/hole soid was shaken with a storm <:)f passion. 
V.'^rath, pride, and desire of revenge, rose into fury. With difficul- 
ty he restrained himself in public ; but as soon as he came to his 
own house, he was forced to disclose the agony of his mind. 

7. He gathered together his friends iind family, wltli Zcrcsh 
his wife. *' He told them of the glory of his riches', and tlie mul- 
titude of his children, and of all the things wherein the king had 
promoted him ; and how he had advanced him above the princes 
and servants of the king. He said, moreover. Yea, Esther the 
queen suffered no man to come in with the king, to the banquet 
that she had prepared, but myself ; and to-morrow also am T in- 
vited to her with the king." After all this preamble, vvdiat is 
the conclusion? " Yet all this availeth me nothing, so long as I see 
Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king's gate. " 

8. The sequel of Haman's histciy I shall not now pursue. It 
might afford matter for mCich insti-uction, by the conspicuous' jus- 
tice of God in his faU and pmiishment. But contemplating only the 
singular situation, in v\diich the expressions just quoted present 
him, and the violent agitation of his mind which they display, the 
following reflections naturally arise: How miserable is \ice, 'when 
one guilty passion creates so much torment ! how unavailing is 
prosperity, when in the height of it, a single disappointment crai 
destroy the relish of all its pleasures ! how weak is human nature, 
v%diich, in the absence of real, is thus prone to form to itself ima- 
ginary v/oes! BXAis. 

SECTION IV. 
Lady Jane Gray, 

1. This excellent personage was descended from the vcy?l line 
of England by both her parents. She was carefully educated in 
the principles' of the refonnation ; and her wisdom and virtue ren- 
dered her a shining example to her sex. But it was her lot to 
continue only a short period on this stage of being ; for, in early 
life, she fella sacrifice to the wild ambition of the duke of Noith- 
umberland ; who pi-ornoted a marriage between her and his son, 
lord Guilford Dudley ; and raised her to the throne of England, 
in opposition to the rights of ISlary and Elizabeth. 

2. At the time of their marriage, she was only about eighteen 
years of age, and her husband was also very young : a season of 
Jife very unequal to oppose the interested views of artful and 
aspiring men ; who, mstead of exposing them to danger, should 
have been the protectors of their innocence and youth. 

3. This extraordinary young person, besides tlie solid endovv'- 
ments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging disposition, 
the most accomplished parts; and being of an equal age vvitli 
king Edward VI. she had received all her education with him, 
and seemed even to possess a greater facility in acquiring every 
part of manly and classical literature, 

4. She had attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek lan- 
guages, as well ias of sevei^l modem tongues ; had passed mobt of 
her time in an application to learning ; and expressed a great m-- 



3-2 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

difference for other occupations aiid amusements usual with her 
sex and station* 

^ 5. Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at one 
time paid her a visit, found her employed in reading Plato, >vhile 
the rest of the family were en^-aged in a paity of hunting in the 
park; and upon his admiring the singularity of her choice,'she told 
nim, that she "received more pleasure Irom that author, than 
others could reap from all their sport and scaiety. " 

6. Her heart, replete with this love of literature and serious 
studies, and with tenderness tovv^ards her husband, who was de- 
serving of her affection, had never opened itself to the flattering 
allurements of ambition ; and the information of her advancement 
to the throne was by no means agreeable to her. She even re- 
IFused to accept the crown ; pleaded the preferable right of the 
two princesses ; expressed her dread of the consequences attend- 
ing an enterprise so dangerous, not to say so criminal ; and de- 
sired to remain m that private station in v^^hich she was born. 

7. Overcome at last witli the entreaties, riither than reasons, of 
her father and father-in-law, and, above all, of her husband, she 
submitted to their will, and was prevailed on to relinquish her own 
judgment. But her elevation was of very short continua.nce. 
The nation declared for queen Mar}^; and the lady Jane, after 
wearing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, returned 
to a private life, v/ith much more satisfaction than she felt when 
royalty was tendered to her. 

8. Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of gene- 
rosity or clemency, determined to remove every person, from wiiom 
the least danger could be apprehended. Warning was, there- 
fore, given to lady Jane to prepare for death ; a doom which she 
had expected, and which the innocence of her life, as well as the 
misfortunes to vWiich she had been exposed, rendered no unwel- 
come news to her. 

9. The queen's bigoted zeal, under colour of tender mercy to 
the prisoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who molested her 
Avith perpetual disputation; and even a reprieve of three days 
was granted her, in hopes that she would be persuaded, during 
that time, to pay, by a timely conversion to popery, some regard 
to her eternal welfare. 

10. Lady Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy circum- 
stances, not only to defend her religion by solid arguments, but 
also to write a, letter to her sister, in the Greek language ; in wliich, 
besides sending her a copy of the Scriptures in that tongue, she 
exhoited her to maintain, in every fortune, a like steady perseve- 
i*ance. 

\11 On the day of her execution, her husband, lord Guilford, 
desired permission to see her ; but she refused her consent, and 
sent him word, that the tenderness of their parting would over- 
come the fortitude of both ; and would too much unbend their 
minds from that constancy, which their approaching end required 
of them. Their separation, she said, would be only Tor a moment; 
and they would soon rejoin each other in a scene, where their af- 
fections would be for ever united ; and where death, disappoint- 
ment, and misfortune, could no longer have access to them, or dis- 
turb their eternal felicity. 



Uiafi, 2. NARRATIVE inECES. 53 

12. It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lord 
Guilford tOi^ether on the same scaftbld, at Tower hill ; but the 
couno-., dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, 
beautv, innocence, and noble birth, changed their orders, ancl |;a\-e 
directions that she should be beheaded within the verge ot the 
Tower. 

13. She saw her husband led to execution; and having given 
him from the window some token of her remembrance, she 
waited with tranquillity till her own appointed hour should bring 
her to a like fate. She even saw his headless body caiTied bacJi in 
a cart ; and found herself more confirmed by the reports, whicli 
she heard of the constancy of his end, than shaken by so tender and 
melancholy a spectacle, 

14. Sir lohn Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led her to 
execution, desired ner to bestow on him some small present, which 
he might keep as a perpetual memorial of her. She g?.ve him 
her table-book, in which she had just written three sentences, on 
seeing her husbcmd's dead body; one in Greek, another in Latin, a 
third in English. ' 

15. The purpoit of them was, ** that human justice was against 
his body, but the Divi]^,e Mercy would be favourable to his soul ; 
and that if her fault deserved punishment, her youth, at leasts 
and her im.prudence, were worthy of excuse ; and that Gotl and 
posterity, she trusted, would show her favour. " On the scaffold, 
she made a speech to the by-standers, in which the mildness of 
her disposition led her to take the blame entirely on herself, with- 
out uttering one ^complaint against the severity with which she 
had been treated. 

16. She said, that her offence was, not that she had laid her 
lia-ad upon the crown, but that she had not rejected it with sufB- 
cient constancy ; Miat she had less erred through ambition than 
through reverence to her parents, whom she had been taught to 
respect and obey : that she wilhngly received death, as the onlv 
satisfaction which she could now make to the injured state ; and 
though her infringement of the laws had been constrained, she 
would show, by her voluntary submission to their sentence, that 
she was desirous to atone for that disobedience, into which too 
much filial piety had betrayed her: that she had justly deserved 
this punishment for being made the instrument, though the unwill- 
ing mstiTiment, of the ambition of others : and that the stor)' of 
lier life, she hoped, might at least be useful, by proving that in- 
nocence excuses not great misdeeds^ if they tend any way to the 
destruction of the commonwealth. 

17. After uttering these words, she caused herself to be dis- 
robed by her women, and with a steady, serene countenance, sub- 
mitted herself to the executioner. ^ hume. 

SECTION V. 

Ortogrul; or, the vanity of riches. 
1. As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the 
streets of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of merchandise \^^hich 
the shops opened to his view ; and observing the different occupa- 
tions which busied the multitude on eVery side, he Avas av/akejied 
&om the tranc^uillity of meditation/by a eTOwd that <:)bstructed his 



H THE ENGLISH READER. J'ari h i 

passage. He raised his eyes, and sav/ the chief vizier, wlio, havmg i 
l^turned from the divah, was entering^ his palace. • 

2* Oi'togrul mingled with the attendants; and being supposed to * 
have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to enter. He \ 
Purveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walla : 
hung with golden tax:)estry, and the floors covered with silken car^ I 
pets ; pjtd despised the simple neatness of his own httle habitation* I 

3. "Surely," said he to himself *'this palace is the seat of hap-- i 
piness ; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and I 
soiTOw can ha\^e no admission. Whatever nature has provided | 
for the delight of .sense, is here spread forth to be enjoyed. What '] 
can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace ' 
has not obtained ? The dishes of luxury cover liis table ! the J 
voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers ; he breathes the fra- 
grance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the i 
Cygnets of Ganges. | 

4. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes, and his ';! 
wish is gratified ; all, whom he sees, obey him, and all, whom he ] 
hears, flatter him. How different. Oh Ortogrul, is thy condition, J 
who art doomed to the per[3etual torments of unsatisned desire , i 
and who hast no amusement in thy power, that can withhold thee ' 
from thv own reflections ! i 

5. They tell thee that thou art wise; but what does wisdom i 
avail with poveity ? None will flatter the poor ; and the wise have ] 
very little power of flattering themselves. That man is surelv •> 
the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his i 
own faults and follies alwa}'s befoi^e him ; and who has none to re- I 
concile him to himself by praise and veneration. I have long : 
sought content, and have not found it; I v/ill from this moment '\ 
endeavour to be rich. " i 

6. Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his chamber for j 
six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich. He sometimes 
purposed to offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings' in In- ; 
dia ; and sometimes resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of ] 
Golconda, 

T. One day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of i 
opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair. He dreamed that ] 
he was ranging a desert country, in search of some one that might | 
teach him to grow rich; and' as he stood on the top of a hill, j 
shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his 
father appeared on a sudden standing before him. **Ortogi'ul," | 
said the old man, " I know thy perplexity ; listen to thy father ; j 
turn thine eye on the opposite mountain." . 

8, Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, 
roaring with the noise of thunder, and scattering its foam on the j 
impending woods. **Now," said his father, *' behold the valley 3 
that lies between the hills." Ortogrul logked, and espied a little s 
well, out of which issued a small rivulet. "Tell me now," said I 
his father, **dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour I 
upon thee like the mountain tonxnt ; or for a slow and gradual ] 
increase, resembling the rill gliding from the well ?" ] 

9- "Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogi-ul ; *<let the golden ^ 
Stream be quick and violent" *'Look round thee," said histatherj ;' 
"once again," Ortognd lookcdj and peixcived the channel ot j 



Chap, 2. NARRATIVE PIECES. \ 55 

the torrent dry and dusty; but following the rivulet from the well, 
he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and ccmstant, 
kept always fiill. He awoke, and determined to grow rich by 
silent profit, and persevering industry. 

10. Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise ; and 
in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised ^ a house, 
equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier, to which he invited all 
the ministers of pleasure, expecting to enjoy^ all the felicity which 
he had imagined riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him 
weary of himself, and he longed to be persuaded that he was 
great and happy. He was courteous and liberal : he gave all that 
approached him hopes of pleasing him, and all who should please 
him, hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, 
and evei7' source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. 

11. Ortogi-ul heard his flatterers without dehght, because he 
found himself unable to believe them. His own heart told him 
its frailties ; his own understanding reproached him with his faults^ 
"How long," said he, v/ith a deep sigh, "have I been labour- 
ing in vain to amass wealth, which at, last is useless! Let no man 
hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too wise to be flattered." 

DR. JOHNSON. 

SECTION VI. 

The hill of science. 

1. In that season of the year, when the serenity of the sky, the 
various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured foliage of 
the trees, and all the sweet, but fading p-aces of inspiring au- 
tumn, open the mind to benevolence, and dispose it for contempla- 
tion, I was wandering in a beautiful and romantic countiy, till 
curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I sat down on the 
fragment of a rock overgrown with moss ; where the rustling of 
the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the dis- 
tant city, soothed my mind into a most perfect tranquillity ; and 
sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging the agreeable 
reveries, which the objects around me naturally inspired. 

2. I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in the 
middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had before any 
conception of. It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly 
youth ; many of whom pressed forward with the liveliest expres- 
sion of ardour in their countenance, though the way ^,vas in many 
places steep and difficult. 

^ 3. I observed, that those, who had but just begim to climb the 
hill, thought themselves not far from the top ; but as they pi*o- 
ceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view ; and the 
summit of the highest they could before discern seemed but the 
foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared to lose itself 
in the clouds. 

4. As I wa,s gazing on these things with astonishment, a friendly 
instructer suddenly appeared : "the mounta.in before thee,'* saicl 
he, " is the Hill of Science, On the top is the temple of Truth, 
whose head is above the clouds, paivi a veil of pure light covers 
her face. Observe the progress of her votaries ; be silent and 
attentive." 

5. After I had noticed a variety of ol^jects, I turned my eye 
towards the multitudes who were cliiobing ti:-e steep ascent , and 



36 THE ENGLISH READr:R. Part 1. 

observed airiong them a youth of a live3l3-look, a pierc:ng eyo, and 
something fiery and hTegular in all his motions. His name was 
Genius. He darted like an ea^le up the mountain ; and left his 
companions gazing after him with envy and admiration: but his 
progress was unequal, a^^.d interrupted by a thousand caprices. 

6, When Pleasure w^arbled in the valley, he mingled in her 
train. Vvhen Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ventured 
to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths ; 
and made so many excursions from the road, that his feebler com- 
panions often outstripped him. I observed that the muses beheld 
hira with partiality; but Truth often frowned and turned aside her 
face. 

r. While Genius v/as thus w^asting his strength in eccentric 
flights, I saw a person of verv different appearance, named Ap- 
phcation. He crept along w^itli a slow and unremitting pace, his 
eyes fixed on the to]) of the m.ountaiji, patientlv removing eveiy 
stone that obstructed his v/ay, till he sav/ most of those below hinri, 
who had at first derided his slov/ and toilsome progress. 

8. Indeed, there v/ere few wdio ascended the hill with equai, 
and uninterrupted steadiness; for, besides the difficulties oi the 
way, they w^ere coiitinuaiiy solicited to turn aside, by a numerous 
crowd of appetites, passions, and pleasures, whose importunity, 
when once complied with, they became less and less able to resist: 
and though they often retuiT.ed to the path, the asperities of the 
road were more severely felt ; the hill appeared more steep and 
rugged ; the fruits, which were wholesome and refreshing, seemed 
harsh and ill tasted ; their sight grew dim ; and. their feet tript at 
eveiy little obstruction. 

9. I saw, with some surprise, that the muses, whose business v/as 
to cheer and encourage those v/ho wxre toiling up the ascent, 
v/ould often sing in the bowers of pleasure, and accompany those 
who were enticed away at the call of the passions. They accom- 
panied them, how^ever, but a little way : and always forsook them 
when they lost sight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their 
chains upon the unhappy captives ; and led them away^ without 
resistance, to the ceils of Ignorance, or the mansions of Misery, 

10. Among the innumerable seducers, who were endeavouring 
to draw away the votaries of Truth from the path of science, there 
v^ns one, so Tittle formidable in her appearance, and so gentle and 
languid in her attempts, that I should scarcely have taken notice 
of her, but for the numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with 
her chains. 

11. Indolence, (for so she was called,) far from proceeding to 
open liostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, 
but contented herself w^ith retarding tlieir progress ; and the pur- 
pose she could not force them to abandon, she persuaded them to 
delay. Her touch had a power like that of the torpedo, which 
withered the strength of those wdio came within its influence. Her 
unhappy captives still turned then- faces towards the temple, and 
always hoped to arrive there; but the ground seemed to slide 
from" beneath their feet, and they found themselves at the bottom, 
before they suspected they had changed their place. 

12. The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their counte- 
nance, changed by degrees into a mejanchoh' languor, which war^ 



Chafi. 5. NARRATIVE PIECEa 5r 

tinged with deeper and deeper glcx>m, aa they glided down the 
stream of Insignificance: a dark and sluggish water, which is curl* 
cd bv no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into a 
dead sea, where startled passengers are awakened by the shock, 
and the next moment buned in tne gulf of Obliviwi. 

13. Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of Science, 
none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indolence 
The captives of Appetite and Passion would often seize the mo- 
ment when their tyrants were lan^id or asleep, to escape from 
their enchantment'; but the dominion of Indolence was constant 
and unremitted ; and seldom resisted, till resistance was in vain. 

14. After contemplating these thing;s, I turned my eyes towards 
the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhi- 
larating, the path shaded with laurels and evergreens, and the 
effulgence which beamed from the face of Science seemed to shed 
a glory round her votaries. Happy, said I, are they who are per- 
mitted to ascend the mountain! But while I was pronouncing thi» 
exclamation, with uncommon ardour, I saw, standing beside me, 
a form of diviner features, and a more benign radiance. 

15. *' Happier," said she, *'are they whom Virtue conducts to 
the Mansions of Content I" "What," said I, "does Virtue then 
reside in the vale?" ** I am found," said she, ** m the vale, and I 
illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and in- 
spire the sage at his meditation. I mingle m the crowd of cities, 
and bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart 
thatowTis my influence; and to him that wishes for me, I am al- 
ready present. Science may raise thee to eminence ; but I alone 
can guide thee to felicity !" 

16. While Virtue was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms 
towards her, with a vehemence which broke my slumber. The 
chill dews were falling around me, and the sliades of evening 
stretched over the landscape. I hastened homeward; and resigned 
the night to silence and meditation, aiken. 

SECl'ION VII. 

The journey of a day ; a fiicture of human life, 

1. Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early m 
the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of In- 
dostan. He was n^esh and vigorous with rest ; he was animated 
with hope ; he was incited by desire ; he walked swiftly forward 
over the vallies, and saw the nills gradually rising before him. 

2, As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morn- 
ing song of the bird of 'paradise ; he was fanned by the last flutters 
of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew from groves of 
spices. He sometimes contemplated the towering height of the 
oak, monarch of the hills ; and sometimes caught the gentle fra- 
^•ance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring : all his 
senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart 

5. Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridian, and 
the increased heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked 
round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on 
his ri.u;ht hand, a grove that seemed to wave ity shades as a sign 
of invltition ; he entered it, and found the coolness and veidtix*** 
ijTesiytiblv pleasant, 

D 



SB THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. 

4. He did not, however, forget whitlier he was travelling; but 
found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to 
have the same direction with the main road ; and was pleased, 
that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite plea- 
sure with business, and to gain the rewards of dihpence without 
suffering its fatigues. 

5. He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without the 
least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes 
tempted to stop by the music of the birds, v/hich the heat had as- 
sembled in the shade ; and sometimes amused himself with pkick- 
ing the flowers that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits 
that hung upon the branches, 

6. At last, the green path began to decline from its first tenden- 
cy, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and 
murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and 
began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the 
kno\vn and common track; but remembering that the heat was 
now in its gi-eatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and un- 
even, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed 
only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of 
tlie ground, and to end at last in the common road. 

7. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, 
thongh he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This unea- 
siness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and 
o'lve way to every sensation that might sooth or divert him. He 
listened to everj^ echo ; he mounted every hill for a fresh pros- 
pect ; he turned aside to every cascade ; and pleased himself 
with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the 
trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. 

8. In these amusem.entSy the hours passed away unaccounted ; 
his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards 
what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to 
go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of 
loiteiiiig was now past. While he was thus toilured with uncer- 
tainty, the sky was ovei'spread with clouds ; the day vanished from 
before him ; and a sudden tempest gathered round" his head. 

9. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful re- 
membrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness is lost when 
ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly impatience that 
prompted him to seek shelter in the grove ; and despised the petty 
curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus 
reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap jtf thunder broke his 
meditation. 

10. He now resolved to do what yet remained in his power, to 
tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some 
issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated 
himself on the ground, and recommended his life to the Lord of 
Nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed 
on with resolution. The beasts of the desert were in motion, and 
on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and 
ravage and expiration. All the horrors of darkness and solitude 
surrounded him: the wmds roared in the woods; and the toiTcnts 
tumbled from the hills. 

Vi, Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the TMld,> 



Chaju 2. NARRATIVE PIECES. 39 

without knowing whither he was going, or whether he v/as eveiy 
moment drawing nearer to safety, or to destruction. At length, 
not fear, but labour, began to overcome him; his breath grew 
short, and his knees trembled ; and he was on the point of lying 
down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, thix)ugh the bram • 
bles, the glimmer of a taper. 

12. He advanced tov/ards the light; and finding that it pro- 
ceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the dooi', 
and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provi- 
sions as lie had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with 
eageiTxess and gratitude. 

13. \Vhen the repast was over, ** Tell me," said the herm/it, " by 
what chance thou hast been brought hither ? I have been now 
twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw 
a man before. " Obidah then related the occurrences of his jour- 
ney, without any^ concerdment or palliation. 

14. " Son," said the he.mit, *' let the errors and follies, the dan- 
gers and escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember^ 
my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the 
TiiOrning of youth, full of ^dgour, and full of expectation ; we set for- 
ward with'spint and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and 
travel on a v^dxile in the direct road of piety towai-ds the mansicais 
of rest 

15. *' In a short time, we remit our fervour, and endeavour to 
find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of 
obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve 
no longer to be ten-ified with crimes at a distance; but rely upon 
our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never 
to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose m the 
shades of security. 

16. "Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are 
then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, 
and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gar- 
dens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesita- 
tion ; we enter them, but enter timorous and ti^mbling ; and al- 
ways hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, 
whidi, for a while, we keep in our sight, and to which we pur- 
pose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one com- 
pliance prepares us for another ; vv^e in time lose the happiness of 
innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifixations. 

ir. ** By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our original 
intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We 
entangle ourselves in business, immei*ge ourselves in luxury, and 
rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy ; till the darkness of 
okl age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our 
w^ay. We then look back upon our lives with bonxDr, v/ith sor- 
row, with repentance ; and v,4sh, but too often vainly v/ish, that 
we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. 

18. *' Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy exam- 
ple, not to despair ; but shall remember, that, though the day is 
past, and their strength is wastedi there yet remains one effort to 
be made: that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endea- 
voui-s ever unassisted; that the vs^anderer may. at length return 
after all his errors j and tb^.t he who implores strength and cou- 



4a THE ENG1.ISH READER, part 1. 

rage fW)m above, shall find danger and difficulty give irav befoi'e 
him. Go now, my son, to thy repose ; commit tnyself to the care 
of Omnipotence ; ai^d when tke morning calls again to toil, begin 
auiew thy journey and thy life." Da, johnsow. 



CHAPTER \\L 

DIDACTIC PIECES. 
SECTION L 

The imfiortance of a good Ednc^ition, • 
!. I CON SIBE3R a human soul, without education, like marble In 
tlie quarry: iJvhitk shows none of its inherent beauties, until the 
ikill of the polisher fetches out the colours, makes the surface 
shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein, that 
runs through t!ie body <d it. Education, after the same munner, 
when it works upow a oioble mind, draws out to view every latent 
virtue and jfeirfection^ which, without such helps, are never able 
to make their appearance. 

2. If my ^ceader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon 
upon \{ym^ I shall make use of the same instance to illustrate the 
force of education, which Aristotle has broueht to explain his doc- 
trine lof substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies hid in 
a Mock of marble ; and that the art of the statuary only clears 
away the superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The 
figure is in the stone, and the sculptor only finds it. 

X What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a hu- 
man souL The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the 
good, or the^ great man, very often lies hid and concealed in a 
plebeian, which a proper education might have disinterred, and 
nave brought to light. I am therefore much delighted with i-ead- 
ing the accounts cr savage nations ; and with contemplating those 
virtues which are wild and uncultivated : to see courage cxertmg 
itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom m cunning, 
patience in suUenness and despair. 

4. Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different 
kinds^f actions, accoraing as they are more or less rectified and 
swayed by reason. When one hears of neg;roes, who, upon the 
death of tneir masters, or upon changing their service, hang them- 
selves upon the next tree, as it sometimes happens in our Ameri- 
can plantations, who can forbear admiring their fidelity, though it 
expresses itself in so dreadful a manner ? 

5. What might not that savage greatness of soul, which appears 
in these poor wretches on many occasions, be raised to, were it 
rightly cultivated ? And what colour of excuse can there be, for 
the contempt with which we treat this part of our species ; that 
we should not put them upon the common foot of humanity ; that 
we should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who murders 
them ; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off 
fh)m the prospects of happiness in another world, as well as in 
this; and deny them that which we look upon as tlie proper 
lucans for attaining it ? 

& It a thcrelbro fi& imxpckkabk blcMin^ to be bom m those 



Qlhali, 3, DIDACTIC PIECES. 41 

parts of the world vvhere wisdom and knowledge flourish ; though, 
it must be confessed, there are, even m these parts, several poor 
uninstructed persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of 
those nations of which I liave been here speaking ; as those who 
have had the advantages of a more liberal education, rise above 
one another by several differerit degrees of perfection, 

7. For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it 
sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough hev/n, and 
but just sketched into a human figure ; sometimes, v^^e see the 
man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and features ; sometimes, 
we find the figure wrought vip to great elegancy; but seldom meet 
with any to which the hand of a Phidias or a rraxiteles could not 
give several nice touches and finishings. addison. 

SECTION IL 

On Gratitude. 

1. There is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind, than 
gratitude. It is accompanied with so great inward satisfaction,^ 
that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by the performance. It is 
not, like the practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, 
but attended with so much pleasure, that were there no positive 
command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it 
hereafter, a generous mxind v/culd indulge in it, for the natural 
gratification which it affords. 

2. If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more fix)m 
man to his Maker ? The Supreme Being does not only confer upon 
us those bounties which proceed more immediately from his 
hand, but even those benefits which are conveyed to us by others. 
Every blessing we enjoy, by what means soever it may be de- 
rived upon us, is the gift of Him who is the great Author of good, 
and the Father of mercies. 

3. If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, naturally 
produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind of a grateful man, 
it exalts the soul into rapture, when it is employed on this great 
object of gratitude; on this beneficent Being, v/ho has given us 
every thing we already possess, and frcm whom we expect every 
thing we yet hope for, addiso;^, 

SECTION III. 

On Forgiveness. 

1. The most plain and natural sentiments of equity concur with 
divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgiveness. Let him who 
has never in his life done wrong, be aUowed*^the privilege of re 
maining inexorable. But let such as are conscious of frailties and 
crimes, consider forgiveness as a debt which they owe to others. 
Common failings are the strongest lesson of mutual forbearance. 
Were this viitue unknown among men, order and comfort, peace 
and repose, would be strangers to human life. 

2. ^ Injuries retaliated according to the exorbitant measure which 
passion prescribes, would excite resentment in return. The in- 
jured person would become the injurer ; and thus wrongs, retalia- 
tions, and fresh injuries, would circulate in endless succession, 
till the world was rendered a field of blood. 

3. Of all the passions which invade the human breast, revengo is 
the most direfiit When allowed to reign with fiiU dominion, it is 

D2 



42 THE ENGLISH READER, Part \. 

more than sufficient to poison the few pleasures which remain to 
man in his present state. How much soever a person may suffer 
from injustice, he is always in hazard of sufferine more from the 
prosecution of revenge. The violence of an enemy cannot inflict 
what is equal to the torment he creates to himself, by means of 
the fierce and desperate passion^ which he allows to rage in his 
soul. 

4. Those evil spirits who inhabit the regions of misery are re- 
presented as delighting in revenge and cruelty. But all that is 
great and good in the universe, is on the side of clemency and 
mercy. The almighty Ruler of the world, though for ages offend- 
ed by the unrighteousness, and insulted by the impiety of men, is 
" long suffering and slow to anger. " 

5. His Son, when he appeared in our nature, exhibited, both in 
his life and his death, the most illustrious example of forgiveness 
which the world ever beheld. If we look into the history of man- 
kind, we sliall find that, in every age, they wlio have been re- 
spected as worthy, or admired as great, have been distinguished 
for this virtue. 

€.. Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and magnanimous 
spirit is always superior to it. It suffers not from the injuries of 
■men those severe shocks which others feel. Collected within itself, 
it stands unmoved by their impotent assaults ; and with generous 
pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy con- 
duct. It has been truly said, that the greatest man on earth can 
no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can make himself 
greater, by forgiving it, blair, 

SECTION IV. 
Motives to the practice of gentleness. 

1. To promote the virtue of gentleness, we ought to view our 
character v/ith an impartial eye ; and to learn, from our own fail- 
ings, to give that indulgence which in our turn we claim. It is 
pride which fills the world v/ith so much harshness and seventy. 
In the fulness of self-estimation, we forget what we are. We 
claim attentions to which we are not entitled. We are rigorous 
to offences, as if we had never offended ; unfeeling to distress, as 
if we knew not what it was to suffer. From those aiiy regions of 
pride and folly, let us descend to our proper level. 

2. I^et us survey the natural equality on which Providence has 
placed man with man, and reflect on the infirmities common to all. 
If the reflection on natural equality and mutual offences, l3e in- 
sufficient to prompt humanity, let us at least remember what we 
are in the sight of our Creator. Have we none of that forbear- 
ance to give one another, v/hich we all so earnestly intreat from 
heaven ? Can we look for clemency or gentleness from our Judge, 
when we are so backward to show it to our own brethren ? 

3. Let us also accustom ourselves, to reflect on the small mo- 
ment of those things, which are the usual incentives to violence 
and contention. In the mffled and angry hour, we view every 
appearance through a false medium. The most inconsiderable 
point of interest, or honour, swells into a momentous object ; and 
the slightest attack seems to threaten immediate ruin. 

4. But after passion or pride has subsided, we look around m 
vain for tlie mighty mischiefs we dreaded. The fiibric^ which our 



Cfmfi, S. DUD^ACTIC PIECES. 43 

disturbed imagination had reared, totally disappears. But though 
the cause of contention has dwindled away, its consequences re- 
main. We have alienated a friend ; we have imbittered an ene- 
my ; we have sown the seeds of future suspicion, malevolence, or 
disgust. 

5, Let us suspend our violence for a moment, when causes of 
discord occur. Let us anticipate that period of coolness, which^ 
of itself, will soon arrive. Let us reflect how little we have any 
prospect of gaining by fierce contention ; but how much of the true 
happiness of life we are certain of throwing away. Easily, and 
from the smallest chink, the bitter waters of strife are let forth; 
but their course cannot be foreseen ; and he seldom fails of suffer- 
ing most from their poisonous effect, who first allowed them to flow. 

BLAIR. 

SECTION V. 

A siisfiicious temfier the source of misery to its possessor. 

1. As a suspicious spirit is the source of many crimes and calami- 
ties in the v/orld, so it is the spring of certain inisery to the person 
who indulges it. His friends wiU be few; and small will be his 
comfort in those whom he possesses. Believing others to be his 
enemies, he will of course make them such. Let his caution be 
ever so great, the asperity of his thoughts will often break out in 
his behaviour; and in return for suspecting and hating, lie will 
incur suspicion and hatred. 

2. Besides the external e\dls w^hicli he draws upon himself, 
arising from alienated friendship, broken confidence, and open en- 
mity, the suspicious temper itself is one of the worst evils which 
any man can suffer. If *'in all fear there is torment," how misera- 
ble must be his state who, by living in perpetual jealousy, lives in 
pei-petual dread ! " ' 

3. Looking upon himself to be surromided v/ith spies, enemies, 
and designing men, he is a stranger to reliance and trust. He knows 
not to whom to open himself. He dresses his countenance in 
forced smiles, while his heart throbs within from apprehensions 
of secret treachery. Hence fretfulness aaid ill-humour, disgust at 
the world, and all the painful sensa,tions of an irritated and imbit 
tered mind. 

4. So numerous and great are the evils arising from a suspicious 
disposition, that, of the two extremes, it is more eligible to ex- 
pose ourselves to occasional disadvantage from thinking too well ot 
others, than to suffer continual misery by thinking always ill of 
them. It is better to be sometimes imposed upon, than lle^^er to 
tinist. ^ Safety is purchased at too dear a rate, v/hen, in order to 
secure it, w^e are obliged to be always clad in armour, and to hve 
in perpetual hostility with our fellov/s. 

5. This is, for the sake of living, to deprive ourselves of tlie 
comfort of life. The man of candour enjoys his situation, what- 
ever it is, with cheerfulness and peace. Prudence directs his 
intercourse with the world ; but no black suspicions haunt his hours 
of rest. Accustomed to view the characters of his neighbours in 
the most favourable light, he is like one who dwells amidst those 
beautiful scenes of nature, on which the eye rests with pleasure. 

6. Whereas the suspicious man, having his imagination filled 
'Witli aU the shocking forms of hiunan falsehood, deceit, raid 



44 THE ENGLISH READER. I^an 1. 

treachery, resembles the traveller in the wilderness, who discerns 
no objects around him but such as are eith-er dreary or terrible ; 
caverns that open, serpents that hiss, and beasts of prey" that 

towL BLAIR. 

SECTION VI. 

Comforts of religion. 

1. There are many wno have passed the age of youth and 
beauty; who have resigned the pleasures of that smiling season; 
who begin to decline into the vale of years, impaired in their health, 
depressed in their fortunes, stript of their friends, their children, 
and perhaps still more tender connexions. What resource can 
this world aiford them ? It presents a dark and dreary waste, 
through which there does not issue a single ray of comfort. 

2. Every delusive prospect of ambition is now at an end ; long 
experience of mankind, an experience veiy different from what 
the open and generous soul of youth had fondly dreamt of, has 
rendered the heart almost inaccessible to new friendships. The 
principal sources of activity are taken away, when they for whom 
we labour are cut off from us ; they who animated, and who sweet- 
ened all the toils of life. 

3. Wherc then can the soul find refuge, but in the bosom of Re- 
ligion ? There she is admitted to those prospects of Providence 
and futurity, w^hich alone can warm and fill the heart. I speak 
here of such as retain the feelings of humanity; whom misfortunes 
have softened, and perhaps rendered more delicately sensible; 
not of such as possess that stupid msensibility, which some are 
pleased to dignify with the name of Philosophy. 

4. It might therefore be expected, that those philosophers, 
v/ho think they stand in no need themselves of the assistance of 
religion to support their virtue, and who never feel the want of its 
consolations, would yet have the humanity to consider the very 
diiferent situation ot the rest of mankind ; and not endeavour to 
deprive them of what habit, at least, if they will not allov/ it to be 
nature, has made necessary to their morals, and to their happiness. 

5. It might be expected, that humanity would prevent them 
from breaking into the last retreat of the unfortunate, wlio can no 
longer be objects of their envy or resentment ; and tearing from 
them their only remaining comfort. The attempt to ridicule reli- 
gion may be agreeable to some, by relieving them from restraint 
upon their pleasures ; and may render others very miserable, by 
making them doubt those truths, in which they were most deeply 
interested ; but it can convey real good and happiness to no one 
individual, Gregory. 

SECTION VII. 
Diffidence of our abilities^ a mark of wisdom. 

1. It is a Bure indication of good sense, to be diffident of it We 
then, and not till then, are growing wise, when we begin to discern 
how weak and unwise we are. An absolute perfection of under- 
standing, is impossible : he makes the nearest appropxhas to it, 
who has the sense to discem, and the humility to acknowledge, its 
imperfections. 

2. Modesty always sits gracefully upon youth; it covers a multi- 
tude of faults, and doubles the lustre of every virtue which it 
seems to hide : the perfections of men being like those flowers 



Vhafi. 3. DIDACTIC PIECES. A5 

which appear more b< autiful, when their leaves are a tittle con- 
tracted and folded up, than when thev are full blown, and display 
themselves, without any reserve, to the view. 

3. We are some of us v cry fond of knowledge, and apt to valu^ 
ourselves upon any proficierrcy in the sciences : one science, how- 
ever, there is, worth more than ail the rest, and that is, the science 
of living well ; which shall remain, when ** tongues shall cease/' 
and ** knowledge shall vanish away." 

4. As to new notions, and new doctrines, of which this age is 
Tery fi-uitful, the time will come, when we shall have no pleasure 
in them: nay, the time shall come, when they shall be exploded, 
and would have been forgotten, if they had not been preserved in 
those excellent books, which contain a confutation of them ; like 
insects preserved for ages in amber, which otherwise would soon 
have returned to the common mass of things. 

5. But a firm belief of Christianity, and a practice suitable to it, 
will support and invigoi^te the mind to the last ; and most of all, 
at last, at that important hour, which must decide our hopes and 
apprehensions: and the wisdom, which, like our Saviour, cometh 
from above, will, through his merits, bring us thither. All our 
other studies and pursuits, however different, ought to be sub- 
servient to, and centre in, this grand point, the pursuit of eternal 
happiness, by being good in ourselves, and useful to the world. 

SEED, 

SECTION VIII. 
On the imfiortance of order in the distribution of our time, 

1. Time we ought to consider as a sacred ti-ust committed to us 
by God ; of which we are now the depositaries, and are to render 
an account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted to 
*is, is intended partly for the concerns of this world, partly for those 
sof the next. 

2. Let each of these occupy, in the distribution of our time, 
that space which properly belongs to it. Let not the hours of hos- 
pitality and pleasure mterfere with the discharge of our necessary 
:afFairs ; and let not what we call necessary affairs, encroach upon 
the time which is due to devotion. To every thing there is a sea- 
son, and a time for every purpose under the heaven. If we delay 
tin to-morrow what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the 
morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the 
wheels of time, and prevent them from carrying us algng snioothly. 

5. He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and 
follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him 
through the labyrinth of the most busy life. The orderly arrange- 
ment of his time is like a ray of light, which darts itself through 
ail his affairs. But, where no plan is laid, where the disposal of 
time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie 
huddled, together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution 
nor review. 

4. The first requisite for introducing order into the manaee- 

inent of time, is to he impressed with a just sense of its value. Let 

us consider well liow much depends upon it, and how fast it fliea 

: away. The bulk oi men are in nothing more capricious and incon- 

iistent, than in their appi^eciation of time. \\Tien they think of it; 



45 THE E:NGLISH READER. Part 1. 

as the measure of their continuance on earth, they highly piize it, 
knd with the greatest anxiety seek to lengthen it out. 

5w JBut When they viev/ it in separate j)arcels, they appear to 
hold it in contempt, and squander it with inconsiderate profusion. 
While they complain that life is shorty they are often wishing its 
diffei^nt periods at an end* Covetous of every other possession, 
of time only they are prodigal. They allow every idle man to be 
master of this property, and make every frivolous occupation wel- 
come that can help them to consume it.' 

6. Among those who are so careless of time^ it is not to be ex- 
pected that order should be obser</ed in its distribution. But, by 
tliis fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and lasting regret 
are they laying up in store tor themselves ! The time which they 
suffer to pass away in the midst of confusion, bitter repentance 
seeks afterwards in vain to recall. What was omitted to be done at 
its proper moment, arises to be the torment of some future season. 

7. Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. 
Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a former period, 
labours under a burden not its own. At the close of life, the dying 
man beholds with anguish that his days are finishing, when his pre- 
paration for eternity is hardly commenced. Such are the effects 
of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its value. 
Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is 
performed aright, from not being performed in due season. 

8. But he who is orderly in the distribution of his^ time, takes 
tlie proper method of escaping those manifold evils. He is justly 
said to redeem the time. By piT>per management, he prolongs it. 
He lives much in little space ; more in a few years than others do 
In many. lie can live to God and his own soul, and at the same 
time attend to all the lawful interests of the present world. He 
looks back on the past, and pro\'ides for the future. 

9. He catches and an-ests the hours as they fly. They are 
marked down for useful purposes, and their memoiy remains. 
Whereas those hours fleet by the man of confusion like a shadow. 
His days and years are either blanks, of v/hich he has no remem- 
br^mce, or they are filled up with so confused and in-egular a suc- 
cession of unfinished transactions, that though he remembers he 
has been busy, yet he can give no -accourit of the business which 
has employed him. blair. 

SECTION IX, 
The digmty of virtue amidst corrufit examfiles. 

1. The most excellent and honourable character which can 
adom a man and a Christia.n, is acquired by resisting the torrent 
of vice, and adhering to tn.e cause of God and virtue against a 
corrupted multitude. It will be found to hold in general, that they, 
who, In any of the gi^eat lines of life, have distinguished themselves 
for thinking profoundly, and . acting nobly, have despised popular 
prejudices; and departed, in several thlings, fi-om the common 
ways of the world. 

2. On no occasion is this more requisite for true honour, than 
where religion and morality are concerned. In times of prevailing 
licentiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, and uncomipted 
integrity; in a public or a private cause, to stand firm by what is 
fair and just, umidst di scguragem.ents and opposition; despising 



Clmli. 3. DIDACTIC PIECES. 4r 

groundless censure and reproach ; disdaining all compliance with 
public manners, when they are vicious and unlawful ; and never 
ashamed of the punctual discharge of every duty towards God and 
man; — this is what shows true greatness of spirit, and will force 
approbation even from the degenerate multitude themselves. 

3. " This is the man," (their conscience will oblige them to ac- 
knowledge,) '* whom v/e are unable to bend to mean condescen- 
sions. We see it in vain either to flatter or to threaten him ; he 
rests on a principle within, which we cannot shake. To this man 
v/e may, on any occasion, safely commit our cause. He is incapa- 
ble of betraying his trust, or deserting his friend, or denying his 
faith." 

4. It is, accordingly, this steady inflexible virtue, this regard to 
principle, superior to all custom and opinion, which peculiarly 
marked the ciiaracters of those in any age, who have shone with 
distinguished lustre ; and has consecrated their memory to all pos- 
terity. It was this that obtained to ancient Enoch the most singu- 
lar testimony of honour from heaven. 

5. He continued to " walk with God," when the world aposta- 
tized from him. He pleased God, and was beloved of him ; so 
that living among sinners, he was translated to heaven without see- 
ing death; "Yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness 
should have altered his understanding, or deceit'beguiled his soul." 

6. When Sodom could not furnish ten righteous men to save it. 
Lot remained unspotted amidst the contagion. He lived like an 
angel among spirits of darkness ; and the destroying flame was 
not permitted to go forth, till the good man was called away, by 
a heavenly messenger, from his devoted city. 

7. When "all flesh had corrupted their way upon the earth," 
then lived Noah, a righteous man, and a preacher of righteousness. 
He stood alone, and was scoffed by the profane crew. But they by 
the deluge were swept away; while on him, Providence conferred 
the immortal honour, of being the restorer of a better race, and the 
father of a new world. Such examples as these, and such honours 
conferred by God on them who withstood the multitude of evil 
doers, should often be present to our minds. 

8. Let us oppose them to the numbers of low and coiTupt exam- 

gles, which we behold around us ; and when we are in hazard of 
eing swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by thinking of those 
who, in fonner times, shone like stars in the midst of surround- 
ing darkness, and are now shining in the kingdom of heaven, as 
the brightness of the firmament, for ever and ever. blair, 

SECTION X. 
The mortijications of vice greater than those of virtue, 

1. Though no condition of human life is free from uneasiness, 
yet it must be allowed, that the uneasiness belonging to a sinful 
course, is far greater, than what attends a course of well-doing. 
If we are weary of the labours of virtue, we may be assured, that 
the world, whenever we try the exchange, will lay upon us a 
much heavier load. 

2. ^ It is the outside only, of a licentious life, which is gay and 
smilin,^. Within, it conceals toil, and trouble, and deadly' sorrow. 
For vice poisons human happiness in the spring, by introducing 
disorder into the hearts Those passions which, it seeips to i^- 



48 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

dulgc. it only feeds with imperfect eratifications ; and thereby 
strengthens them for preying, in the end, on their unhappy victims, 

3. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the pain of self-denial 
is confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as much as he 
who follows Christ, must " take up his cross ;" and to him assured- 
ly, it will prove a more oppressive burden. Vice allows all our 
passions to range uncontrolled; and where eacli claims to be supe- 
rior, it is impossible to gratify all. The predominant desire can 
only be indul<jed at the expense of its rival. 

4. No mortifications which virtue exacts, are more severe than 
those, which ambition imposes upon the love of e^-se, pride upon 
interest, and covetousness upon vanity. Self-denial, therefore, oe- 
lon^s, in common, to vice and viitue^ but with this remarkable 
difi^rence, that the passions which virtue requires us to mortify, it 
lends to weaken ; whereas, those which vice obliges us to deny, 
it, at the same time, strengthens. The one diminishes the pain of 
self-denial, by moderating the demand of passion ; the other in- 
creases it, by rendering those demands imperious and violent. 

5. What distresses that occur in the calm life of virtue, can be 
compared to those tortures, which remorse of conscience infUcts 
on the wicked; to those severe humiliations, arising from guilt 
combined with misfortunes, which sink them to the dust; to those 
violent agitations of shame and disappointment, which sometimes 
drive them to the most fatal extremities, and make them abhor 
their existence! How often, in the midst of those disastrous situa- 
tions, into which their crimes have brought them, have they exe- 
crated the seductions of vice; and. with bitter regret, looked back 
to the day on which they first forsook the path of innocence ! 

BLAIR. 

SECTION XL 

On ContentmenL 

1. Contentment produces, in some measure, all those effects 
which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the philoso- 
pher's stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same 
thing, by banisliing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the 
disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, i^ miakesk. 
him easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the 
soul of man, in respect of ever}^ being to whom he stands, related.. 

2. It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and in^atitude, towards, 
that Being who has allotted him his paii: to act in this world. It 
destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to cormption, 
with regard to the community wherein he is placed. It gives. 
sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his 
thoughts. 

3. Among the many methods which might be made use of for 
acquiring this virtue, I snail mention only the two following. First 
of all, a man should always consider how nmch he has more than 
he wants ; and secondly, how much more unhappy he might be 
than he really is. 

4. First, a* man should always consider how much he has more 
than he wants. I am wondcrfidly pleased with the reply which 
Aristippiis made to one, who coiidok^d with him upon the loss of a 
firm : " WL-.," said he, ** I have three fariTis still, and you have but 
one; so lliat 1 ou^ht rather to be afflicted for ycu, than 'you for nic ** 



Chiifi. % DIDACTIC PIECES. ^ 

5. On the contran-, foolish men are more apt to c<mskler whcct 
Jicy ha\'e lost, than what they possess ; and to fix their eyes upoij 
those who are richer than themselves, i-athei* than on tliose who 
are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and coiive:' 
nit-nces of life lie in a naiTow compass ; but it is the humour of 
mankind to be always looking forward ; and strainuig after oi?e 
who has got the start of them m wealth and honour. 

6. For this reasr^n, as none can be pix^perly called rich, who 
have not more than they want, there arc tew rich men in any of 
th.e politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, who Iceep 
their wishes witliin their fortunes, and have mere wealth than 
tliL^y know how to enjoy. 

7. Pei-sons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid povertr ; 
and aie pei-petually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the 
solid pleas\ires of 'life, thev endea^our to outvie one another in 
shadows and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, 
with a great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over their 
heads ; and, by contracting their desircs, they enjoy all that secret 
sutisf-iction which others are always in quest of. 

8. The truth is, this riiiiculous^chase after ima^'-nr.r}- pleasures, 
c-'imot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source 6i those evils 
which generally undo a nation. Let a m.an's estate be what it 
n^'iy, he is a poor man, if he does not live within it ; and natui^ally 
sets himself to. sale to -my one that can give him his price. 

9. Wlien Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left 
him a i^ood estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king 
of T^ydia, he thanked him for his kindness ; but told him, he had 
already more by half than he knew wlif.t to do with* In shcrt^ 
content is equivalent to we;-\lth, and luxur}' to poverty : or, to give 
the thought a more agixeable turn, *' Content is natural wealth,^' 
Si'vs Socrates ; to which I shall add, luxuiy is artificial poverty. 

10. I shall theref(H'e recommend to the consideration of tlibse, 
w:io are ahva^^s aiming at supernucus and imaginary enjoyments, 
and who will iiot be at the trouble of contracting tlieir desiies, an 
excellent saying of Bion the philosopher, namely, *' That no man 
h -.s so much care, as he who endeavours after the most happiness." ' 

11. In the second place, every one ought to reflect how miuch 
more unhappy he might be, than he really is. — The fcrmer cou- 
siileration took m all those, who are sufficiently provided with the 
means to nuke themselves easy ; this regards such as a.ctuLJly lie 
under some pressm-e or misfortune. These may receive great alle- 
viation, frv)m such a comparison as the mihappy person may make 
b':;tween himself and others ; or between the misfortune v/hich he 
Miffi^rs, and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. 

12. I like the st<^ry of the honest Dutchman, -who, upon break- 
•ig his leg by a fall from the main-mast, told the standers by, it 
vas a great mercy that it was not his neck. To which, since I 

m got 'into quotations, gi\e_ me leave to add the saying of an old 
-hilosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine 
.'ith him, Wcis ruffied by a person, tliat came into the room in a 
;'assion, and threw dc^wii the table that stood before them: "Every 
one," says he, *^has ]iii> ciilamity; and he is a happy man that has 
no greater thhu tliis. " 

13. Wc fitid an histancc tr <-he sr.mr puiposcj in tli? life of d'.>Q 

1^ 



50 THE ENGLISH READER. Fart 1. 

tor Hammond, written by bishop Fell. As this good man was trou- 
bled with a complication of distempers, v/hen he had the goat 
upon him, he used to thank God that it was not the stone ; and 
when he had the stone, that he had not both these distempers on 
him at the same time. 

14. I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that thci'e 
never was any system besides that of Christianity, v^iich could 
effectually produce in the mind of man the viitiie I havti been 
hitherto speaking of. In order to make us contented with our c(>u- 
dition, many of the present philosophers tell us, that ou)- discontcnfe 
only hurts ourselves, without being able to make an): alteration in 
our circumstances; others, that whatever evil befalls us is derived 
to us by a fjital necessity, to which superior beings themselves are 
subject; while others, very gravely, tell the man who is miserable, 
that it is necessary he should be so, to keep up the harn>r>ny of 
the universe ; and that the scheme of Providence would be trou- 
bled arid perverted, were he otherwise. 

15. These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satis- 
fy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unreasonable, 
but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. lliey rather gi\'e 
despaix' than consolation. In a word, a nian might repiv to one cf 
these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who acl\ised him 
not to grieve for the death of a person v/hom he loved, because his 
grief could not fetch him again ; "It is for that very reason," said 
the emperor, "that I grieve." 

16. On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to hu- 
man nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of 
bettering his condition ; nay, it shows him, that bearing his afflic- 
tions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the removal of them. 
It makes him easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter. 

" ADDISON. 

SECTION XII. 

Rank and riches afford no ground for envy. 

1. Of all the grounds of envy among men,' superiority in rank 
and fortune is the most general. Hence, the malignity wltich the 
poor commonly bear to the rich, as engrossing to themselves ail 
the comforts of life. Hence, the evil eye with which persons of 
inferior station scrutinize those v/ho are above them in rank ; and 
if they approach to that rank, their envy is generally strongest 
ag-ainst such as are just one step higher than themseh'cs. 

2. Alas! my friends, all this envious disquietude, which agitates 
the world, airises from a deceitful figure which imposes on the 
public Adew. False colours are hung out : the real state of men is 
not what it seems to be. The order of society requires a distinc- 
tion of ranks to take place : but in point of happiness, all men 
come much nearer to equality than is commonly imagined ; and 
the circumstances, which form any ma.terial difi^erence of happi- 
ness among them, are not of that nature whi6h rendei's them 
grounds of envy. 

3. The poor man possesses not, it is true, some of the conve- 
niences and pleasures of the rich; but, in return he is free from 
many embarrassments to which they are s\ibjcct. By the simpli- 
city and uniformity of his life, he is delivered from that variety of 
car-cs, which perplex those who have great aftairs to managei m* 



Chap. 5. DIDACTIC PIECES. 51 

tiicrite plans to pursue, many enemies, perhaps, to encounter in 
the pursuit. 

4. In the tranquillity of his small habitation, and private family^ 
he enjoys a peace which is often unknown at courts. The gratih- 
cations of nature, which are always the most satisfactory, are pos- 
sessed, by him to their full extent ; and if he be a stranger to the 
i-efmed pleasures of the wealthy, he is unacquainted also with the 
desire of them, and by consequence, feels no want. 

x5. His plain meal satisfies nis appetite, with a relish probably 
liigher than that of the rich man, who sits down to his luxurious 
banquet. His sleep is more sound ; his health more lirm ; he 
knows not what spleen, lang-uor, and listlessness are. His accus- 
tomed employments or labours are not more oppressive to him, 
than the labour of attendance on courts and the great, the labours 
of dress, the fatigue of amusements, the very weight of idleness, 
frequently 'are to the rich. 

6. In the mean time, all the beauty of the face of nature, aU the 
enjoyments of domestic society, all the gaiety and cheerftjiness of 
an easy mind, are as open to him as to those of the highest rank. 
I'he splendour of retinue, the sound of titles, the appeara-^.ces of 
high respect, are indeed soothing, for a shoi-t time, to the great. 
But, become familiar, they are soon forgotten. Custom effaces 
tiieir impression. They sink into the rank of those ordinary 
things, wliich daily I'ecur, without raising any sensation of joy^ 

T.het us cease, therefore, from looking up with discontent and 
envy to those, whom birth or fortune has placed above us. Let 
us adjust the balance of happiness fairly. When we think of 
the enjoyments we want, we should think also of the troubles fix)m 
which we are free. If we allow their just value to the comforts 
-,ve possess, we shall find reason to rest satisfied, with a veiy mo- 
derate, thougli not an opulent and splendid, condition of fortune. 
Often, did we knov\r the whole, we should be inclined to pity the 
state of those wdiom we now envy. blair, 

SECTION XIII. 
Patience under provocations our interest as well as duty. 

1. The v/ide circle of human society is diversified by an endless 
vaiiety of characters, dispositions, and passions. Uniformity is, iii 
no respect, the genius of the world. Every man is marked by seme 
peculiarity which distinguishes him froni another : and no where 
c:m tw^o individuals be found, who are exactly and in all respects, 
alike. Where so much diversity obtains, it cannot but liappen, 
that in the intercoui-se which men are obhged to maintain, tneir 
tempers will often be ill adjusted to that intercourse ; will jar, and 
interfere with each other. 

2. Hence, in every station, the highest as well as the lowest, 
and in every condition of life, public, private, and domestic, occa- 
sions of ijTitation frequently arise. We are provoked, sometimes, 
by the folly and levity of those with whom v/e are connected; 
sometimes, by their indifference or neglect ; by the inci\dllty of a 
friend, the haughtiness of a superior, or the insolent behaviour of 
one in lower station. 

3. Hardly a day passes, without somewhat or other occurring, 
which sei-ves to nime the man of impatient spirit. Of course, 
such a man lives m a contii^ual storm. He jcnovf s not wha^t it is to 



^^ THE ENGLISH READER. Purt 1. 

enjoy a train of good humour. Servants, neighboui^s, friends, 
spouse, and children, all, through the unrestrained \iolence of his 
temper, become sources of disturbance and ^^exat^on to him. li> 
rain is afRuence ; in vain are health and prosperit\\ Tlie leas? 
trifle is sufficient to discompose his mind, and poison 'his pleasures. 
His very amusements are mixed with turbulence and passion. 

4. I would beseech this man to consider, of what small moment 
the provocations which he receives, or at least imagines him- 
self to receive, are really in themselves; but of what great mo- 
ment he makes them, by suffering them to deprive him of the 
possession of himself. I would beseech him, to coi^sider, how 
ipany hours of happiness he throws away, which a little moi-e pa- 
tience would allow him to enjoy: and how^ much he puts it hi the 
power of the most insignificant persons to render him miserable, 

5. ** But v/ho can expect," we hear him exclaim, ** that lie k 
to possess the insensibihty of a stone ? How is it possible for human 
nature to endure so many repeated provocations ? or to bear calmlv 
'with so unreasonable behaviour.'* '—My brother! if thou canst 
bear with no instances of unreasonable behaviour, withdmv/ thy- 
self from the world. Thou art no longer fit to live in it. Leave. 
the intercourse of men. Retreat to the mountain, and tlie desert; 
<w shut thyself up in a celL For here, in the midst of societ\\ 
i]ffenc€s must come, 

6. We might as well expect, when we behold a calm atmos- 
phere, and a clear sky, that no clouds were ever to rise, and no 
\5nnds to blow, as that our life were long to proceed, without re- 
ceiving provocations from human frailty. The careless and the im- 
pi'udent, the giddy and the fickle, the ungi^ateful and tlie interest- 
ed, every where meet us. They are the briers ai:id thorns, witli 
which the paths of human life are beset. He only, who can hold 
his course among them with patience and equanimit)-, he ^vho is 
prepared to bear what he must expect to happen, is worthy of tkc 
name of a man. 

r. If we preserved ourselves composed but for a moment, we 
•should perceive the insignificancy ot most of those provocatioH:^ 
"which we magnify so highly. When a few suns more have rolled 
over our heads, the storm will, of itself, have subsided; the 
cause of our present impatience and disturbance will be utterly 
forgotten. Can w- e not then, anticipate this hour of calmness to our- 
iselves ; and begin to enjoy the peace which it will certainly brin^? 

8. If others have behaved improperly, let us leave them to their 
<ysvn folly, without becoming the victim^ of their caprice, and pun- 
ishing ourselves on their account. — ^Patience, in this exercise of it, 
cannot be too much studied by all who wish their life to flow in a 
smooth stream. It is the reason of a man, in opposition to the 
passion of a child. It is the enjoyment of peace, in opposition to 
uproar and confusion, blair. 

SECTION XIV. 
Moderation in our wishes recommended, 

i. The active mind of man seldom or never rests satisfied witli 
Its present condition, how prosperous soever. Originally foraied 
ft* a wider range of objects, for a higher sphere of enjoyments 
'it jinds it«elf, in every situation of fortune, straitened and confined. 
<^^siblfe ^ defejeocy in it« 6t5tt«, it k evtrr sending forth the feud 



Chaju 3. .DIDACTIC PIECES. ^3 

desire, the aspiring wisb, after sometjiin^ beyond what is enjoyed 
at present. 

2. Hence, that resllessness which prevails -so genemlly among 
mankind. Hence, that diseust of pleasures which they have tried : 
that passion for novelty; that ambition of rising to some degree of 
eminence oi^ felicity, of which they have formed to themselves an 
indistinct idea. All which may be considered as indications of a 
certain native, original greatness in the human soul, swelling be- 
yond the limits of its present condition ; and pointing to the higher 
objects for which it was made. Happy, if these latent remains of 
our primitive state, served to direct our washes towards their 
proper destma.tion, and to lead us into the pat^i of true bliss. 

3. But in this dark and bewildered state, tlie aspiring tendency 
of our nature unfortunately takes an opposite direction, and feed's 
a very misplaced ambition. The flattering appearances which 
here present themselves to sense ; the distmct.ons which fortune 
confers; the advantages and pleasures >vhich we imagine the world 
to be capable of bestowing, till up the ultimate wish of most men. 
These are the objects which engross their solitary musings, and 
stimulate their active labours ; if hich warm the breasts of the 
young, animate the industry of die middle aged, and often keep 
alive the passions of the old, until the very close of life. 

4. Assuredly, there is nothing unlawful in our wishing to be freed 
from whatever is disagreeaWe, and to obtain a fuller enjoyment of 
the comforts of life. But i/hen these wishes are not tempered by 
reason, they are in danger of precipitating us into much extrava- 
gance and folly. Desire? and wishes are the first springs of action. 
When they become exorbitant, the whole character is likely to be 
tainted. 

5. If we suffer our fancy to create to itself worlds of ideal happi 
ness, we shall discompose the peace and order of our minds, and 
foment many hurtful passions. Here, then, let moderation begin 
its reign ; by bringing vvithin reasonable bounds the wishes that we 
form. As soon as they become extravagant, let us check them, 
by proper reflections on the fallacious nature of those objects, 
which the world hangs out to allure desire. 

6. You have strayed, my friend3, from the road which conducts 
to felicity ; you have dishonoured the native dignity of your souls, 
in allowing your wishes to teiminate on nothing higher than world-. 
iy ideas of greatness or happiness. Your imagination roves in a 
land of shadows. Unreal forms deceive you. It is no more than 
a phantom, an illusion of happiness, which attracts your fond ad- 
miration; nay, an illusion of happiness, which often conceals much 
real miser}^ 

7. Do you imagine that all are happ)^, who have attained to 
those summits of distinction, towards which your wis|ies aspii-e ? 
Alas ! how frequently has experiiiuce shown, that where roses 
were supposed to bloom, nothing but briers and thorns gi-^ev/ ! Re- 
putation, beauty, riches, grandeur, nay, royalty itself, v/ould, 
many a time, have been gladly exchanged by the possessors, for 
that more quiet and humble station, with which you are now dis- 
satisfied. 

8. With all that is splendid and shining in the world, it is de- 
ci-eed that there should mix many deep shades <rf wo. On the do 

E2 



54 THE ENGLISH READER, Pan t 

uated Mta^*ica53 ^ fortune^ the great calamities of ]ift cMefly falL 
There, the storm speads its violence,, and there,, the thundei 
breaks; while, safe and lanhurt^the inliabitants of the vale remain 
^ow;— Retreat, then, from, tliose vain and pernicious excursions. 
t)f extravagant desire, 

9. Satisf)' yoii^'selves with what m rational and attainable. Ti-aiii 

SHir mmds to mc derate views, of human life, and human happiness, 
emember, and l dniire, the wisdom of Agur's petition ; "Re- 
move far fi'om me vanity and lies;. Give me neither poveilv noi 
riches. Feed me Wi'^h food convenient for- me i lest 1' be full and 
deny thee ; and say, w. ho is the Lord I o? lest I be poor^, and steal; 
and take the name of m v God in vain/' blair 

V ^.ECnON XV, 
Ommacience and oinnifireH.^'nce of the Deity,, t/^ source of com- 
Bolatio, ^ to good men. 
1. I WAS yesterday, about sunset, walkii^g ia th^ open fields^ 
tin the night insensibly fell upon nae. I at first am.u'sed myself with 
<dl the richness and vaiiety of colours^ which appe^ired in the 
western parts of heaven. In pro^ )oi*tion as they faded away and 
went out, several stars and planets j, ppeared ome after another, till 
the whole firmament was in a glow, 

% The blueness of the ether was ^exceediagly heightened ami 
livened, by the season of the year, and the ray& of all those- 
luminaries that passed through it. Thv" galaxy appea^red in its. 
most beautiful wnite. To complete the sc "ne, the fell n>oai rose^ 
at length, in that clouded majesty, which I\ lilton ttikes notice of;; 
and opened to the eye a new picture of natL're, which was more: 
finely shaded, and disposed among softer ligi'ts thaB that whicl^ 
the sun had before discovered to us. 

S. As I was surveying the moon walking in lit^r brightness, and 
taking her progress among the constellations, a vthought arose in 
rae, which f believe very often perplexes and distui hs men c€ seri- 
ous and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that 
reflection; "when I consider the heavens, the work of thy fin- 
gers ; the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained ; what is, 
man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou 
regardesthim!** 

4, In the same manner, when I considered that infinite host of 
stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which wei-e then 
shining upon me ; with those innumerable sets of planets or Avorlds, 
which were moving round their respective sims ; when I still en- 
lai]ged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds, 
rising still above this which we discovered ; and these still enlight- 
ened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are planted at 
80 great a distance, that they may appear to the inhabitants of the 
former, as the stars do to us: in short, while I pursued this 
thoueht, I could not but reflect on that little insienificcmt figure 
Whicn I myself bore amidst the immensity of God*s works. 

5. Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation^ with 
all the host of planetary worlds that move above him, utterly ex- 
languished and annihilated, they would not be missed, more than 
a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is 
so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, it would scarcely 
jKloke a bhm]^ in the creation. The chasm would be imperccp* 



tkafi. 5. DIDACTIC PIECES. 5^ 

tible to an eye, tliat could take in the whole compass of natun-^ 
and pass fi-om one end of the creation to the other ; as. it is possi])le 
there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures 
which are at present more exalted than ourselves. By the help of 
glasses, we see many stars, v/hich we do not discover with our 
naked eyes ; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are 
our discoveries. 

6. Huy genius carries this thought so far, that he does" not think 
it impossible there may be stars, whose light has not yet travelled 
down to us, since their first creation. There is no question that 
the universe has certain bounds set to it ; but when Ave consider 
that it is the work of Infinite Power, pi-ompted by Infinite Good- 
ness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how caji our imagi- 

^ nations set any bounds to it ? 

7. To retui-n, therefore, to my first thought, I could not hwt 
look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was not 
worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under 
his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked 
amidst the immensity of nature ; and lost amcng that infinite 
variety of creatures, which, in all probability, swai-m through ail 
these immeasurable regions of matter. 

8. In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I 
considered that it took its rise from those narrow concepticiiSj, 
which we are apt to entertain of the Divine Nature. \\ e our- 
selves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. 
If we ai*e careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect 
others. This imperfection which we observe in oursehes, is an 
imperfection that cleaves, in some degree, to creatures of the 
highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, beings of finite 
and limitea natures. 

9. The presence of every created being is confined to a certain 
measure oi space ; and consequently his observation is stinted to a 
certain number of objects. The sphere in which we mo\'e, and 
act, and understand, is of a wider circumference to one creature, 
than another, according as we rise one above another in the scale 
of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circum- 
ference. 

10. When, therefore, we reflect on the Divine Nature, we are 
so used and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we 
cannot forbear, in some measure, ascribing it to him, in v/hom 
there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us, 
that his attributes are infinite ; but the poorness of our conceptions 
is such, that it caimot forbear setting bounds to every thing it con- 
templates, till our reason comes again to our succour, and throws 
down all those little prejudices, which rise in us unawares, and are 
natural to the mind of man. 

11. We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melancholy 
thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker, in the multipli- 
city of his works, and the infinity of those objects among which he 
seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the first place, 
that he is omnipresent ; and in the second, that he is omniscient. 

12. If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes 
through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. His 
€«pation, in eveiy part of i^ is full of him. There is nothing hgt 



5<5 THE ENGLISH READEft. Pari L 

has made, which is either so distant, soUttle, or so inconsideralDle, 
that he does not essentially reside in it. His substance is witliki 
the siiljstance of eveiy being, whether material or immaterial, and 
as intimately present to it, as tliat being- is to itself. 

13. It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to move 
out of one place into another; or to withdraw himself from any 
thing he has created, or from any part of that space which he 
diifused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him 
in the language of the old philosophers, he is a being whose 
centre is every where, and liis circumference no where. 
' 14. In the second place, he is omniscient as Avell as omnipresent. 
His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his 
omnipresence. He cannot but be conscious of every motion tliat 
arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially per- 
vades ; and of every thought tjiat is stin-ing in the inteliectucd 
woT'ld, to every pait of which he is thus intimatel)^ united^ 

15. Were the soul separated from the body, and should it with 
one glance of thought start beyond the bounds of tlie creation ; 
should it for millions of years, continue its progress tl)jrough infi- 
nite space, with the same activity, it would still find itself within 
the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed by the immensity 
of the Godhead. 

16. In this consideration of ; the Almighty's omnipresence and 
omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He camiot hui 
regard every thing that has being, especiallv such of his creatures 
who fear they are hot regarded by him. He is ptivy to all then' 
thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt 
to trouble them on this occasion ; for, as it is impossible he sliould 
overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he re- 
gards with an eye of mercy, those who endeavour to recommend 
themselves to his notice; and in unfeigned humility of heart, 
think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. 

ADDISOV. 



CHAPTER IV. 

ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Ha/ijiines^ is founded m rectitude of conduct. 

1. All men pursue good, and would be happy, if tliey knew 
Ixow: not happy for minutes, and miserable for hours ; but bapp^% 
if possible, through every part of their existence. Either, there 
fore, there is a good of this steady, durable kind, or there is not. 
If not, then all good must be transient and uncertain ; and if so, 
an object of the lowest value, which can little deserve our attention 
or inquiiy. 

2. But if there be abetter good, such a good as we are seeking; 
like every other thing, it must be derived from some cause; and 
that cause must either be external, internal, or mixed; in as much 
as, except these three, there is no other possible. Now a steady, 
durable good, cannot be derived from an external cause ; since all 
derived fiom externals must fluctuate as they fluctuate^ 

S. By the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixtm^e of the 



CJmp.4, ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. ;>r 

two; because the j):irt which is extt^rniJ, will pro])(>rti<)nal)ly <^le- 
istroy its essence, Wkat then reni.iins but the cause interiud ? the 
\^ry cause which we have supposed, when we place the sovc- 
x-eigii good in ni"nd, — m rectitude of conduct. Harris, 

SECTION 11. 
Virtue and pkty man^s highest interest. 

1. I FIND myself existing upon a httle s])ot, surrounded evers^ 
way ])y an immense unknown expansion. — \A'here am 1 ? What. 
sor't of place do 1 inhabit ? Is it exactly accommodated in every 
instance to my convenience ? Is there no excess of cold, none of 
lieat, to offend me ? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my 
own, or a different kind ? Is every thing subser\ ient to me, as 
though I had ordered all myself? "No — ^nothing like -it — the far- 
thest from it possible. 

2. The world appears not, then, originally made for the private 
c.onvenience of n\e alone ?— It does not. But is it not possible so 
to accommodate it, by my own particular industry ? If to accom- 
«nodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyoiul me, 
5t is not possible. What consequence then follows ; or can there 
he any other than this — -If I seek an interest of my own detach- 
ff(! from that of others, I seek an interest ^vhich is chimerical, 
and which can never have existence. 

3. How then must I determine ? Have I no interest at all ? If 
1 uave not, I am stationed here to no purpose. But why no inte- 
rest? Can I be contented with none but one separate and de- 
tached ? Is a social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity 
as not to be admitted ? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes ot" 
herding: animals, are sufficient to convince me, that tlic thing b 
♦K>mewhere at least possible. 

4. How, then, am I assured that it is not equally tme of man .^ 
Admit it ; and what follows ? If so, then honour and justice »ircr 
my niterest ; then the whole ti-ain of moral virtues are my inte- 
rest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can' niain- 
tain society. 

5. But, faither still — I stop not here— I pursue this social inte 
rest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my 
own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the v/hole 
I'ace of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth. Am I not 
related to them all, hy the mutual aids of commerce, by the gene- 
ral mtercoursc of ails and letters, by that common nature of which 
we all participate ? 

6. Again — I must have food and clothing. Wijhout a proper 
genial warmth, 1 instantly pensh. Am I not related, in this view, 
lo the very eaith itself; to the distant sun, from whose beams I 
derive vigour ? to that stupendous course and order of the infinite 
host of heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly 
pass on ? 

^ 7, Were this order once confounded, I could not probably sur- 
vive a moment ; so absolutely do I depend on this common gene- 
ral welfare. What, then, have I to do, l)ut to enlarge \ irtue into 
piety ? Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my 
interest ; but gratitude also, acc^uiescence, resignation, adoration, 
and all I owe to this great pclitv, and its gi*cat Govei-nor o\ir 
ftamoKift Pai-ent ' HARfiiJi. 



SB THE ENGLISH REAr)ER. Pan h 

SECTION IIL 

JVie injustice of an uncharitable sfiirit. 
3, A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitable spirit is not only inconsistent 
■v^dth aL social virtue and happiness, but it is also, in itself, ui:irea- 
sonabie and unjust, in oixicr to fonn sound opinions concernini^ 
characters and actions, two things are especially requisite, informa- 
tion and impartiality. But such as are most forward to decide un- 
favourably, are commonly destitute of both. Instead of possessinii^, 
or even requiring, full infoniiation, the grounds on which they 
proceed are frequently the most slight and frivolous. 
^ 2. A tale, perhaps, which the idle have invented, the inquisi- 
tive have hstened to, and the credulous have propagated; or a 
real incident which rumour, in carrying it along, has exaggerated 
and disguised, supplies them with materials of confident asser-- 
tion, and decisive judgment. From an action tli^ey presently look 
into the heart, and infer the motive. This supposed motive they 
conclude to be the ruling principle \ imd pix)nounce at once con- 
cerning tlie whole character, 

3. Nothing can be more contrary botli to equity and to sound 
reason, than this precipitate judgment. Any man who attends to 
what passes withm himself, may easily discern what a complicated 
system the human character is ; and what a variety of circum- 
stances must be taken into the account, in order to estimate it truly. 
No single instance of ccMiduct whatever, is sufficient to determine it 

4. As from one worthy action, it v/ere credulity, not charity, 
to conclude a person to be free from all vice; so from one which 
is censurable, it is perfectly unjust to infer that the author of it is 
without conscience, and without merit. If we knew all the attend- 
ing circumstances, it might appear in an excusable li^ht; nay, per- 
haps, under a commendable form. The motives of the acto'r may 
have been entirely different froni those which we ascribe to him ; 
and where vv e suppose him impelled by bad design, he aaay have 
been prompted by conscience and mistaken principle. 

5. Admitting the action to have been in every view criminal, 
he may have been hurried into it through inadvertency and sur- 
prise. He may have sincerely repented ; and the virtuous prin- 
ciple may have now" regained its full vigour. Perhaps this was the 
corner of frailty ; the quaiter on which he lay open to the incur- 
sions of temptation; v/hile the other avenues oi his heart were 
firmly guarded by conscience. 

6. It is therefore evident, that no part of the government of tem- 
per deserves attention more, than to keep our minds pure from un- 
charitable prejudices, and open to candour and humanity in judging 
of others. The worst consequences, both to oui-selves and to socie- 
ty, follow from the opposite spirit. blair. 

SECTION IV. 
The misfortunes of men mostly chargeable on themselves. 
1. We find man placed in a world, where he has by no means 
the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities' sometimes 
oefall tlie v/oithiest and the best, v/hich it is not in their power to 
prevent, and where nothing is left them, but to acknowledge, and 
to submit vo, the high hand of Heaven. For such visitations ot 
trial, many ^cood and wise reasons can be assigned, ^vhich the pre- 
sent subject leads mc u^t to discuss. 



amlu 4. ARGUMENTATIVE FIFXES. 55 

2. But though those unavoidable calamities make a part, yet 
they make not the chief pait, of the vexations and sorrows that 
distress liuman life. A multitude of evils beset us, for the source 
of which we must look to another quarter, — ^No sooner has any- 
thing in the health, or in the circumstances of men, gone cross to 
their v/ish, than the)r be^in to talk of the unequal distribution of 
the good things of this lite ; they envy the condition of others; they 
repine at their o>vn lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world. 

5. Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken consti- 
tution. But let us ask him, whether he can, fairly and lionesth', 
assign no cause for this but the unknown decree ot* heaven ? Has 
he duly valued the blessing of health, and always obsen^ed the 
rules of virtue and sobriety ? Has he been moderate in his life, 
and temperate in all his pleasures ? If now he is only paying the 
price of his former, perhaps his forgotten indulg-ences, lias he any 
title to complain, as if he were suffering unjustly ? 

4. Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we 
should often find them peopled with the victims of intemperance 
and sensuality, and with the children of vicious indolence and sloth. 
Among the thousands who languish there, we should find the ]}ro- 
portion of innocent sufferers to be small. We should see faded 
youth, premature old age, and the prospect of an untimely gi^ave, 
to be the portion of multitudes, who, in one way or other, ha\^e 
brought those evils on themselves ; while yet these martyrs of vice 
and folly have the assurance to arraign the hard fate of man, and 
to '* frfet against the Lord." 

3. But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind ; 
of the injustice of the world; of the poverty which you suffer, and 
the discouragements under which you labour ; of the crosses and 
disappointments of which your life has been doomed to l^e tull.— 
Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire 
you to reflect impartiariy upon your past train of life. 

6. Have not sloth or pride, or ill temper, or sinful passions, 
misled you often from the path of sound and wise conduct ? Have 
you not been wanting to yourselves in impi-oving those opportuni- 
ties' which Providence offered you, for bettering and advancing 
your state ? If you have chosen to indulge your humour, or your 
taste, in the gTatifications of indolence or pleasure, can you com- 
plain because others, in preference to you, have obtained those 
advantages which naturally belong to useful laboui^, and honour- 
able pursuits ? 

7. Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which 
your passions, or vour pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued }-ou 
through much of your life; tainted, perhaps, your" characters, 
involved you in embarrassments, or sunk you into neglect? — It is 
an old sayinf^, that every man is the artificer of his own foitune in 
the world. It is certain,' that the wTjrld seldom tunis wholly against 
a man, unless through his own fault "Religion is," in 'general, 
*' profitable unto all things." 

8. Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good temper and 
prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity ; and 
where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far oftener 
owing to their having deviated from that road, than to their having 
encountered insuperaljle bars in it. Some, by being too artful^ 



•60 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

forfeit the rcjputation of pl•obit^^ Some, by lieing too open, are 
accounted to fail in piiidence* Others, by being tickle and change 
4ible, are distrusted by all. 

9. The case commonly is, that men seek to ascribxs their disap- 
pointments to any cause,' rather than to their OAvn miscondtictj and 
when they can devis'c* no other cause, they lay them to the charge 
of Providence. Their folly leads them iiito vice;s ; their vi^es into 
nn'sfortunes ; and in their misfortunes they ** murmur agakist Pro- 
vidence. " 

10. They are doubly unjust towards tKeir Creator.- In their 
prosperity, thev are apt to ascri!>e their success to then* own dili- 
gence, rather than to his blessing: and in their adversity, they int 
pute theii' distresses to his providence, not to their own misbeha- 
\ iour. Wlicreas, the truth is the very reverse of this. " Everv 
f^ood and every perfect gift cometh from above;" and of evil an-il 
misery, man is the author to liimself. 

11. \V!\en, from the condition of individuals, we look aljroart 
rt'^ tlie public state of the world, we meet with more proofs of thc: 
truth of this assfn.ion. We see great societies of men toni in 
.pieces hy intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil connnotions. We. 
■sec mighty armies going fortii, in formidable aiTay, a.gainst each 
other, to co\^er the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries 
»<^f widows and oi'}}hans. Sad evils these are, to which this mise- 
rable world is exposed. 

12. But are these e^ils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God ? 
.Was it he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or 
who filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood ? Are these 
raisei'ies any other than tfle bitter fruit of men's violent cmd disor- 
des'ly passions ? Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition 
and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and to the turbu- 
lence of the people? — Let us lay them entirely out of the account, 
in thinking of Providence; and let us think only of the " foolish- 
ness ^of man." 

la. Did man control his passions, and form his conduct accord- 
mg to the dictates of wisdom, hunianity, and virtue, the earth 
vv'ould no longer be desolated by cruelty; and human societies 
would 'live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mis- 
cliief and violence which fill the world, let man behold, with 
shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him 
be hural:led by the mortifying view of his own perverseness ; but 
let not his " heart fret against the Lord." blair. 

SECTION V. 
On disinterested fnendslnji, 

1. I AM informed that certain Greek writers (philosophers, it 
seems, in the opinion of their couritrymen) have advanced some 
\'ery extraordinary positions relating to Iriendship ; as, indeed, 
what subject is there, which these subtle geniuses have not tor- 
tured with their sophistn ? 

2. T.'he authors to wliom I refer, dissuade their disciples fi'om 
entering into any strong attachments, as unas oidably creating su- 
pernumerary disquietudes to those v/ho engage in tlieni ; and, as 
every man has more than sulTicicnt to call forth liis soficitude, in 
the* course of his own afTaiis, it is a weakness, they contend, anjc- 
iousl) to in^ olvc liiniself ki the concerns ci" otliLTs. 



Cliafu 4. ARCiUMEKTATIVE PIECES. 61 

3. They recommend it also, in all CG3inexions of this kind, to 
hold the liands of union extremely loose; 80 as alwavs to have it hi 
one's power to straiten or relax t\em^ as circnmstaiices and situa- 
tions shall render most expedient. 1 hey add, as a capital aiticle 
of their doctrine, that, " to live exempt from cares, is an essential in- 
gredient to constitute human happiness: but an ingredient, however, 
which he, who voluntarily distresses himself with cares, in which he 
has no necessary and personal interest, must never hope to possess." 

4. I have been told likewise, that there is another set of pretend- 
ed philosophers, of tlie same country, whose tenets, concerning this 
subject, are of a still more illiberal and ungenerous cast. The pro 
position they attempt to establish, is, that "friendship is an affair 
of self-interest entirely; and that the proper motive for engaging in 
it, is, not in order to gi^tify the kind and benevolent affections, but 
for the benefit of that assistance and supjxyit which are to be de- 
rived from the connexion, " 

5. Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most dis- 
posed to have recourse to auxiliary alliances of this kind, who are 
least qualified by nature, or foitune, to depend upon their own 
stren^h and powers: the weaker sex, for instance, being generally 
more inclined to engage in friendships, than the male part of our 
s])ecies ; and those who are depressed by indigence, or labouring 
under misfortunes, than the wealthy and tne prosperous. 

6. Excellent and obliging sages, these, undoubtedly ! To strike 
out the friendly affections fix)m the moral world, Avould be like 
extinguishing the sun in the natural ; each of them being the source 
of the be^t and most grateful satisfactions, that Heaven has con- 
ferred on the sons of men. But I should be glad to knov/, Avhat 
the real value of this boasted exemption from care, which they 
pi-omisc their disciples, justly amounts to? an exemption ilattering 
to self-love, I confess ; but which, upon many occurrences in hu- 
man life, sliould be rejected with the utmost clisdain. 

7. For nothing, surely, can be more inconsistent with a well- 
poised and manly spirit, than to decline enj^aging in any laudable 
action, or to be discouraged from perseverme^ in it, byan appre- 
hension of the tixAible and solicitud-e, with which it may probably 
be attended. 

8. Virtue licrself, indeed, ought to l^e totally renounced, if it be 
right to avoid every possible means tha.t may be productive of unea- 
siness: for who, that is iictuated by her principles, can observe the 
conduct of an opposite cliaracter, without being affected with some 
degree of secret disscitisfaction ? 

9. Are not the just, the brave, and the good, necessarily exposed 
to the disagreeable cmolioirs of dislike and aversion, when they 
respectively meet with instances of fraud, of cowardice, or of vil- 
lanv? It is an essenti;d pre perty of every w^ell-constituted mind, 
to be affected with p.'iin, or pleasure, according to the nature of 
those moral aj-jpcarances that present themselves to observation. 

10. If sensibility, therefore, be not incompatible with true wisdom, 
(iukI it surely is 'not, unlesa we suppose Vnat philosophy deadens 
every finer feelini;- of our nature,) what just reason can be assign- 
ed, why the svinpathf lie suderings which may result from friend- 
ship, should be a sufficient inducement icr banishms tha. gene- 
rcjus affection from the liLiniaii breact ^ 

F 



6C THE ENGLISH READER. Part h 

IL Extingul^ al^ emotions of the heart, and what difiTerence will 
remain, 1 do not say between man and brute, but between man and 
a mere inanimate clod ? Away then with those austere philoso- 
phers, who represent virtue as hardening the soi:^ against all the 
softer impressions of humanity ! 

12. The fact, certainly, is much otherwise. A tnify good man is, 
upon many occasions, extremely susceptible of tender sentiments ; 
and his heait expands with joy, or shnnks with sorrow, as ^ood or 
ill fortime accompanies his friend. Upon the whole^ then, it may 
fairly be concluded, that, as hi the case of virtue, so in that of 
friendship, those painful sensations, which may sometimes be pro- 
duced by tlie one, as well as by the other, are ec[ually insirfficient 
gi'ounds for excluding either of them from taking possession c^ 
our bosoms. 

13. They who insist that " utility is the first and prerailmg mo^ 
tive, which induces mankind to enter into particular friendships,*' 
appear to me to divest the association of its most amiaMe and en- 
gaging principle. For to a mind rightly disposed, it is not so much 
tne benefits received, as the affectionate zeal from wlrieh they 
flow, that gives them their best and most valuable recommendation. 

14. It is so far indeed from being^ \^erified by fact, that a sense 
of our v/ants is the original cause of forming these amicable allf- 
ances; that, on the contrary,^ it is observable, that none have been 
more distinguished in their friendships than those, whose power 
and opulence, but, above all, w^hose superior virtue, (a much firmer 
support,) have raised them above every necessity of having re^ 
course to the assistance of others. 

15. The true distinction then, in this question, is, that ** although 
friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility is not the 
primaiy motive of friendship.'*' Those selfish sensualists, there- 
tore, who, lulled in the lap ot luxuiy, presume to maintain the re- 
terse, have surely no claim to attention; as they ai e neither qualified 
by reflection, nor experience, to be competent judges of the suWect. 

16. Is there a man upon the face of the earth, wha would delibe- 
rately accept of all the wealth, and all the affluence this world can 
bestow, if offered to him upon the severe tenuis qf his being un- 
connected with a single mortal whom he could lo\^e, or by whom 
he should be beloved ? This would be to lead the wi-etched life 
of a detested tyi-ant, who^ amidst pei-petual suspicions and alarms, 
passes his misei^ble days a stranger to e^'en'- tender sentiment ; 
and utterly precluded from the heart-felt satisfactions of friendship. 

Melmotli's trandation of Ciccro^s Lcsliua, 
SECTION VI. 
On the iminortality of the soul. 

1. I WAS yesterday walking alone, in one of my friend's w'oods ; 
and lost myself in it 'very agreeabl)-, as I was running over, m my 
mind, the several arguments that establish this great point ; which 
Js the basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes, 
and secret jovs, that cav< arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. 

2. I considered thoss several proofs drawn — First, fi*om the na- 
ture of the soul itself, avK, particularly its immateriality ;. which, 
thoijgh not absolutely necessary to the cteniity of its duration, 
has, I think, been evinced to afmost a demonstration. 

^jk Secondly, from its passions and sentiments ; as, particularly. 



O^A 4. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 6« 

f i-om its love of existence ; its horror of annihilaticaa ; and its 
liopes of immoi1:ality ; with that secret satisfaction which it findfi 
in tlie practice of virtue ; and that uneasiness which follows upon 
the commission of vice, — ^Thirdlv, from the nature of the Su- 
preme Being, w^hose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are 
idl concerned in this point. 

4. But among these, and other excellent ar^ments for the im*- 
moitality of the soul, there is one drawn from the peipet^al pro- 
gi'ess of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility of ever an* 
riving at it ; wliich is a hint that I do not remember to have seen 
opened and improved by others, w^ho have v/ritten on this subject, 
though it seems to me to cany a veiy great weight with it. 

5. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, 
which is capable of immense perfections, and of receiving nevr 
Lnprovements to ail eternity, snail fall av/ay into nothing, almost 
as soon as it is created ? Are such abilities made for no purpose ? 
A brute aiTi\^s at a point of perfection, that he can never pass : ia 
a few years he has all the endow^ments he is capable of; and 
^■vvere K=e to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is 
at present. 

6. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments j 
were her faculties to be fall blown, and incapable oi farther en- 
largements; I could imagine she might fall away insensibly, and 
drop at once into a state ot annihilation. But can we belie\x a think- 
er^ oeing that is in a perpetual progress of improvement, and tra^ 
veiling on from perfection to perfection, after having just looked 
abroad into the woi-ks of her Creator, and made a tew discoveries 
of his infinite goodness, wisdoixi, and power, must pensh at her 
first setting out, and in the vejy beginnmg of her inquiries ? 

7. Man, considered only in his present state, seems sent into th» 
world merely to propagate his kind. He provides himself with a 
successor ; and irn mediately quits his post to make room for him. 
He does not seem bo^Ti to eiijoy life, but to deliver it doAvn to otheiu 
This is not sui-prising to consider in animals, which are formed 
tor our use, Jind which can finish their business in a short life. 

a The silk- worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs 
and dies, But a man cannot talce in his full measure of know* 
ledge, has not tim.e to subdue his passions, establish his soul in vii^ 
tue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hur- 
ried off tlie stage, \^'"ould an infinitely wise Being make such glcjn* 
ous creatures for so mean a purpose ? Can he delight in the pro- 
duction of such abortive intelligences, such short-lived reasonable 
beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted? 
capacities that are never to be gratified ? 

9. How can. we find that wisdom which shine^^s tlirough all his 
works, in the formation of man, without looking on this world as 
enly a nursery for the next ; and without believing that tlie seve- 
ral generatioiis of rational creatures, which rise up i^md disappear 
m such quick successions^ are only to recei^^e their first rudiments 
of existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into a more 
fiiendlv climate, where they may spread aad flourish to all etemitv ? 

10. There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumph* 
aot consideration in religion, than this of the pci-petual pn^rcss, 
wh.Jch the soul makes to^vaMs the perfection dF m eaiiire, ^ith^ml 



64 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

^^er arriving at a period in it. To look ir^xni the soul as going 
on from strength to strength ; to consider that she is to shine for 
ever with new acces!iions of glory, and bnghten to all eternity; that 
she will be still adding virtue to virtue,, and knowledge to know- 
ledge ; carries hi it something wonderfully agreeable to that am- 
bition, which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a 
prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beau- 
tifying in his eyes ; and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees 
©f ixisemblance. 

11. Methinks this single consideration, of the jprogress of a finite 
spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extintz:insh all envy in in- 
ferior natui'es, and all contempt in superior^ lliat cherub, which 
now appeal^ as a god to a human soul, knows a eiy well that the 
period will come aoout hi eternity, when the human soul shall be as 
perfect as]ie himself nov/ is.: nay, y/hen she shall look dov/n upoj> 
that degree of perfection as n^uch as she now falls short of it. It 
is true, "the higher nature still advances, and by t]\at means pre- 
serves his distance and superiority in the scale of being ; but he 
knows that, how high soever the station is of which he stands 
possessed at present, the inferior nature will„ at length,, mount 
up to it ; and .shine foxth in the same degree of glory. 

12. With what astonishment and veneration,, may we look into 
our own souls, where iliere arc such hidden stoi^es of virtue and 
knowledge, such inexhaustecl sources of perfection ! We know 
not yet what we shall Ix.- ; nor will it ever enter into the heail of 
man, to conceive the glory that will be always in i-eserve for him. 
The soul, considered with its Creator,, is like one of those niathe-' 
matical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, 
without a possibility of touching it: and can there be a thought so 
transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetuid approaches 
•lo HIM, who ia the standard not only of perfection^ but of happi- 
ness? ADDISO:*- 



CHAPTER V. 

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Tlie Seasons, 

1, Among the great blessings and wonders of the creation, may 
be classed the regularities of times and seasons. Immediately 
after the flood, the sacred promise was made to man,, that seed- 
time and liarvest^ cold and heat, summer and winter,^ day and 
uight, should ccMitinue to the very end of all things. Accordingly, 
in obedieiKe to that promise, the rotation is constantly prcsenting 
us with some useful and agreeable. alteration ; and all the pleasing 
liovelty of life arises from these natural changes: nor are we le^s 
indebted to them for many of its solid comforts. 

2. It has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, to 
mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and conveni- 
ences of every change ; and, indeed, such discriminate observa- 
tions upon natural variety, cannot be undeligjitful ; since the bless'^ 
ing which every month brings along with it, is a fresh instance ot* 
the Ajrisdam an 3 bounty of that Pix)yide^ixe, v/l\ich regulates th:e 



Chuju 5. -DESCRIPTIVE PIECfcS. 65 

glories of the rem. We glow a« we contemplate ; we f<jel a pr«^- 
£)ensit)' to adore, whilst we enjoy. 

0. In the time of seed-sowing, it is the 8cas?Ju of confide^ic^ : 
the grain which tlie Imsbandman tnists to the bosom of the earth 
shall, haply, yield its seven-fold rewards. Spring presents us with a 
scene of lively exfiectation. That which was before sown, begins 
now to disco^xr signs of successful vegetation. The labourer ob- 
server the change, and anticipates the liarvest ; he watches the 
progress of nature, and smiles at her influence : while the maa 
of contemplation walks forth with the evening, amidst the frit* 
grance of flowers, and promises of plenty ; nor returns to his cot* 
tage till darkness closes the scene upon his ej^e. Then cometh 
the harvest, when the large wish is satisfied, and the granane« 
of nature are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxury of 
abundance. 

"4. The powers of language are unequal to the description of thi* 
happy season. It is the carnival of nature : sun and shade, cool- 
ness and quietude, cheerfulness and melody, love and gratitude* 
iinite to re-nder every scene of sum.mer deliglitful. The divisioa 
of light and darkness is on« of the kindest efforts of Omnipotent 
Wisdom, Day and night }deld us contrary blessings ; and, at tho 
«ame time, assist each other, by givuig fresh lustre to the delight! 
of both. Amidst tl^ic glare of cia}"^, and bustle of life, hov/ could 
we sleep ? Amidst the jjloom of darkness, how could we labour ^ 
5. How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper division ! The 
hours of light are adapted to activity; and those of darkness, to 
rest. Ere the day is passed, exercise and nature prepare us for 
the pillow ; and by the time that the morning returns, we arc 
again able to meet it v/ith a smile. Thus, every season has a 
charm peculiar to itself ; and every moment affords some inter* > 
esting innovation. melmoth, ' 

SECTION IL • 
Th€ cataract of A^'iaQ'ara, hi Canada, Aorth AmericcL 

1. This amazing fall of w^ater is made by the river St Law* 
rence, in its passage from lake Erie into tlie'lalce Ontaiio. The 
St. Lawrence is one of the largest rivers in the world ; and yet the 
whole of its waters is discharged in this place, by a fall of a hun* 
dred and fifty feet perpendicular. It is not easy to bring the ima* 
gination to coiTespond to tlie greatness of the scene. 

2. A river extremely deep and rapid, and that serves to dram 
the waters of almost all North America into the Atlantic Ocean, 
is here poured precipitately down a ledge of rocks, that rises, like 
a w^all, across the whole bed of its stream. The river, a little 
above, is ne^ir three quarters of a mile broad; and the rocks, 
where it gTOv/s narrower, are four hundred yards over. 

3. Their direction is not straight across, but hollowing inwards 
like a horse-shoe : so that the cataract, which bends to the shape 
of the obstacle, rounding inwards, presents a kind of theatre the 
most tremendous in nature. .lust m the middle of this circular 
wall of waters, a little island, that has braved the fury of the c\ir- 
i-ent, presents one of its points, and divides the stream at tap intD 
two parts ; but they unite again long before they reach the bottom. 

4. The noise of tfie fall is heard at the distance of several leagues; 
and the fuiT of the waters, at the termination of their fell, iS im- 

F2 



56 THE ENGLISH READER. Pari 1. 

conceivable. The dashing produces a mist that rises to the very 
clouds ; and which Ibi-ms a mast beautiful rainbow, wlien the sua 
shines. It will be readily supposed, that such a cataract entirely 
destroys the navigation of the stream ; and yet some Indians ii> 
their canoes, as it is said, have ventured down it with safety.* 

GOLDSMITH, 

SECTION III. 

The grotto of Antijiaros. 

1. Of all the subterranean caverns now known, the grotto of An- 
tiparos is the most remarkable, as well for its extent, as for the 
beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cavern was 
first explored by one Magni, an Italian traveller, about one hun- 
dred yeai*s ago, at Antiparos, an inconsidei-able island of the Ar- 
chipeiaga 

2. ** Having been informed," says he, ^'J^v the natives of Paros, 
that, in the little island of Antiparos, whicn lies about two miles 
fix)m the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth ot 
a cavern in that place, it was resolved that we (the French consul 
and himself) should pay it a visit. In pursuance of this resolution^ 
after we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles 
through the midsl of beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we 
at length came to a little hill, on tlie side of which yawned a most 
horrid cavern, that, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror, 
and almost repressed curiosity. 

3. ^ Recovering the first surprise, however, we entered boldly ; 
and had not pi*oceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed 
statue of the giant presented itself to our view. We c][uickly per- 
ceived, that what the ignorant natives had been terrified at as a 
giant, was nothing more than a spaiTy concretion, formed by the 
water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees harden- 
ing into a figure, whicli their feare had formed into a monster, 

4. " Incited by this extraoixiinary appearance, we Avere induced 
to proceed still further, in quest of new adventures in this subter- 
ranean aibode. As we proceeded, new v/ondcrs oflered them- 
selves ; the spars, formed into trees and shnibs, presented a kind 
of petrified grove ; some white, some green ; and all receding in 
due perspective. They struck us with the more amazement, as 
we knew them to be mere productions of nature, w^ho, hitherto 
in solitude, had, in her playful moments, dressed the scene, as il" 
for her own amusement. 

5. ** We had as yet seen biit a few of the wonders of the place ; 
and we were introduced only into the portico of this amazing tem- 
ple. In one comer of this half illuminated recess, there appeared 
an opening of about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a 
place totjiily dark, and which one of the natives assured us con- 
tained nothing more than a reservoir of water. Upon this infor- 
mation, we made an experiment, by throwing down some stones, 
which rumbling along the sides of the descent for some time, the 
Bound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. 

* This venturing down in safety, is a report, bearinj^ upon its front its own refuta- 
tion: that It should ever have found a place in tlie braiH or the book of the eJeg«nt 
historian, is a matter of surprise. Canoes and other vessels, with passengers, are, in- 
deed, sonietimes unfortunately drawa down the awful declivity, but seldom a vestige 
crt" either ig ever afterwards seen. The slunly mountain oak, and the towcang piiiCj 
frrquentJy take the desperate teap^ and for ever disappear. 



Chati. 5. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 67 

6, "In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Levan- 
tine mariner, who, b)^ the promise of a good reward, ventured, 
with a flambeau in his hand, into this naiTow aperture. After 
continuing within it for about a quarter of an hour, he returned, 
bearing in his hand, some beautiful pieces of white spar, which art 
could neither equal nor imitate. Upon being infomied by him that 
the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in once 
more with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descend- 
ing, by a steep and dangerous way. 

7. ** Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led 
into a spacious amphitheatre, (if I may so call it,) still deeper than 
any other part, we returned, and being pi'o\T[ded with a ladder, 
flambeau, and other things to expedite our descent, our whole 
company, man by man, ventured into the §ame opening ; and de- 
scending one after another, wx at last saw ourselves all together 
in tlie most magnificent part of the cavern. ^ 

SECTION IV. 
The grotto of A?itiparos, continued, 

1. "Our candles being now all Rehted up, and the whole pfece 
completely illuminated, never could the eye be presented with a " 
moi-e glittering, or a moi-e magnificent scene. The whole roof 
hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass, yet solid as marble. 
The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and noble ceiling; the sides 
were regularly formed with spars ; and the whole presented the 
idea of a magnificent theatre, illuminated with an immense profu- 
sion of lights, 

2. ** Tlie floor consisted of solid marble ; and, in several places, 
magnificent columns, thrones, altars, and other objects, appeared, 
as if nature had designed to mock the curiosities of art. Our 
voices, upon speaking or singing, wei^ redoubled to an astonishing 
loudness; and upon the firing of a gun, the noise and reverberations 
were almost deafening. 

3. "In the midst of this gi^nd amphitheatre rose a concretion 
of about fifteen feet high, that, in some measure, resembled an 
altar; from which, taking the hint, wx caused mass to be cele 
bmted there. The beautiful columns that shot up rouuvd the 
altar, appeared like candlesticks ; and many other natural objects 
represented the customary ornaments of this rite. " 

4. " Below even this spacious grotto, there seemed another ca- 
vern ; down which I ventured v/ith my former mariner, and de- 
scended about fifty paces by means of a rope. I at last arrived 
at a small spot of level ground, w^here the bottom appeared differ- 
ent from that of the amphitheatix, being composed of soft clay, 
yielding to the pressure, and in which I thrust a stick to the.depth of 
six feet. In this however, as above, numbers of the most beautiful 
crystals wxre fonned; one of which, particularly, resembled a table. 

5. "Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, we perceived a 
Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so obliterated by 
time, that we could not read it distinctly. It seemed to import 
that one Antipater, in the time of Alexander, had come hither ; 
but whetner he penetrated into the depths of the cavern, he does 
not think fit to inform us." — This account of so beautiful and 
striking a scene, may serve to give us some idea a* the subteiTane- 
ous wonders of nature. goldsmith. 



68 THE ENGLISH READER. Pun 1, 

SECTION V. 

Rarthquake at Cutanea, 

1. One of the earthqu?.kes most paiticulaiiy desciibed in his- 
tory, is that which happened in the year 1693; the damages of 
which were chiefly felt in Sicily, but its motion was perceived in 
Germany, France, and England. It extended to a circumference 
of two thousand six hundred leagues; chiefly affectinjj the sea 
coasts, and great rivers ; more perceivable also upon tne moun- 
tains than in the vatleys. 

2. Its motions were so rapid, that poi-sons who lay at their 
length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling billow. The 
walls were dashed from their foundations ; and no fe^ver thjiri 
fifty-four cities, with an incredilDle number of villages, were either 
destroyed or greatly damaged. The city of Catanea, in particular, 
-^vas utterly overthrown. A traveller who was on his way thither, 
perceived, at the distance of some miles, a black cloud, like night, 
nangin^^ over the place. 

3. The sea, all of a sudden, began to roar ; mount iEtna to send 
forth great spires of flame ; a.nd soon after a shock ensued, with a 
noise as if all the artillery in the world had been at once dis- 
charged. Our trciveller being obliged to alight instantly, felt him- 
self raised a foot from the ground ; and turning his eyes to the 
city, he with amazement saw nothing but ? thick cloud of dust in 
the air. 

4. The birds flew about astonished ; the sun was darkened ; the 
beasts ran hoAvling from the hills ; and although the shock did not 
continue above three minutes, yet near nineteen thousand of the 
inhabitants of Sicii/ perished m the ruins. Catanea, to which 
city the describer was travelling, seemed the pnndpal scene of 
ruin ; its place only was to be found ; and not a footstep of its for- 
mer magnificence was to be seen remaining. goldsmith, 

SECTION VL 
Creation, 

1. In the progress of the Divine works and government, there 
aiTived a period, in which this earth was to be called into existence. 
Wlien the signal moment, predestined from all eternity, was come, 
the Deity arose in his might ; and with a word created the world, 
— ^What an illustrious moment was that, when, from non-exist- 
ence, there sprang at once into being, this mighty globe, on which 
so many millions of creatures now dwell ! 

2. No preparatory^ measures were required. No long circuit 
of means was employed. " He spake ; and it was done: he com- 
manded ; and it stood fast. The earth was at first withou: ion-n, 
and void ; and darkness was on the face of the deep. " The Al- 
mighty surveyed the dark abyss ; and fixed bounds to the several 
divisions of nature. He said,' ** I^et there be light ; and there wts 
light." 

3. Then appeared the sea, and the diy land. The mountains 
rose; and the rivers flowed. The sun and moon began their 
course in the skies. Herbs and plants clothed the grounde The 
air, the earth, and the waters, were stored with their respective 
inhabitants. At last, man was made aff-er the image of God. ^ 

4. He appeared, v/njking with countenance erect ; and received 
his Crcat/>rs benediction, as the Lord of this new v/crld. The 



Chati. 5. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 69 

Almighty beheld his work when it was finished ; and prcnoiinced 
it GOOD. Superior beings saw with wonder this new accession to 
existence. " The moniing stars sang together ; and all the sons 
of God shouted for joy." blair. 

SECTION vn. 

Charity. 

1. Charity is the same with benevolence or love ; and is the 
term uniformly employed in the New Testament, to denote all the 
good affection's which we ought to bear towards one another. It 
consists not in speculative ideas of general benevolence, floating in 
the head, and leaving the heart, as speculations too often do, 
mitouched and cold. Neither is it confined to that indolent goocl 
r^tui*e, which makes us rest satisfied with being free from invet- 
erate malice, or ill-will to our fellow-creatures, without prompt- 
ing us to be of service to any. 

2. Time charity is an active principle. It is not properly a single 
x'iltue ; but a disposition residing in the heart, as a fountain whence 
all the virtues of benignity, candour, forbearance, genei-osity, com- 
passion, ajid liberality, flow, as so many native streams. From gen- 
eral good-will to all, it extends its iniluence particularly to those 
with whom we stand in nearest connexion, and who are dii'ectly 
with in the spher-e of our good offices. 

3. From tlie countiy or community to which we belong, it de- 
scends to the smaller assx)ciations of neighbourhood, relations, and 
friends ; and spreads itself over the whole circle of social and do- 
mestic life. 1 mean not that it imports a pi-omiscuous, undistin- 
guished affection, which gives every man an equal title to oui 
love. Chanty, if we should endeavour to cany it so far, would be 
rendered an 'impracticable virtue; and would resolve itself into 
mere words, without affecting the heart. 

4. Ti-ue charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the distinction 
between good and bad men ; nor to warni our hearts equally to 
chose who befriend, and those who injure us. It reser\-es our esteem 
for good men, and our complacency for our friends. Towards our 
enemies it inspires foi^veness, humanity, and a solicitude for their 
welfare. It breathes universal candour, and liberality of sentiment. 
It forms gentleness of temper, and dictates affabihty of manners, 

5. It prompts corresponding sympathies v/ith them who rejoice, 
and them who weep. It teaches us to slight and despise no man. 
Charity is the comforter of the afflicted^ the protector of the op- 
pressed, the reconciler of differences, the intercessor for offendei^» 
It is faithfulness in the fiiend, public spirit in the magistrate, 
equity and patience in the judge, moderation in the sovereign, and 
loyalty in the subject. 

'6. In parents, it is care and attention ; in children, it is rever- 
ence and submission. In a word, it is the soul of social life. It is 
the sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of men. It is ** like 
the dew of HeiTnon," says the Psalmist, ** and the dew that de- 
scended on the mountains of Zion, where the Lord c<^nmanded 
tlMi blessing, even life for evermore." blai^ 

SECTION VIII. 
Prosperity is redoubled to a good man, ^ 

1. None but the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, 
fcnoisr how to enjoy prosperity. They fcng to its comforts \k\t 



TO THK ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

maiily relish of a sound uncorrupted miiid. They stop at tlie pro 
per point, before enjoyment degenerates into disgiist, and pleasure 
IS converted into pain. Tliey are stmni^ers to those complaints 
which flow fmm spleen, caprice, and all the fantastical distresses 
of a vitiated mind. W^hile riotous indulgence enervates both the 
body and the mind, purity and virtue heighten all the powei-s of 
liuman fruition. 

2. Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. 
The selfish gratificatioi^s of the bad, are both narrow in their cir- 
cle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is redoubled to a 
good man, by his generous use of it. It is reflected back upon 
him from^ every one whom he makes happy. In the intercourse 
of domestic alfection, in the attachment ot friends, the gratitude 
of dependents, the esteem and good-will of all who know him, he 
sees blessings multiplied round him, on eveiy side. 

3. *' When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when 
the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : because I delivered the 
poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. 

The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, and 
I caused the widow's heart to sing with joy. I was eyes to the 
blind, and feet was I to the lame : I v/as a father to the poor; and 
the cause which I knew not I searched out." 

4. Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree planted 
hy the rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit in its season : 
and that fruit he l^rings forth, not for himself alone. He flourishes, 
not like a tree in some solitary desert, which scattei's its blossoms 
to the wind, and communicates neither fniit nor shade to any living 
thing : but like a tree in the midst of an inhabited country, which 
to some affords friendly shelter, to others fruit ; which is not only 
admired by all for its beauty ; but blessed by the traveller for the 
shade, and by the hungrv for the sustenance, it hath given, blair. 

' SECTION IX. 
0?i the beauties of the Psalnif?, 

1. Greatness confers no exemption from the cares and sorrows 
of life : its share of them fi-equently bears a melancholy pn^portion 
to its exaltation. This the monarch of Israel experienced. He 
sought in piety, that peace v/hich he could not find in empire ; and 
alleviated the disquietudes of state, with the exercises of devotion. 
His invaluable Psalms convey those comforts to others, which 
they afforded to himself. 

.2. Composed upon particular occasions, yet designed for general 
use ; delivered out as services for Israelites under the Law, yet no 
tess adapted to the circumstances of Christians under the Gospel , 
they present religion to us in the most engaging dress ; communi 
catmg truths which philosophv'could never investigate, in a style 
which poetry can never equal ; while history is made the vehicle 
of prophecy, and creation lends all its charnris to paint the glories 
<jf I'edemption. 

3, Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform theun-. 
derstanding, elevate the affections, and entertain the imagination. 
Indited under the influence of him, to whom all hearts are known, 
and all events foreknown, they suit mankind in all situations j 
S^teful as the manna which descended fi-om above, and confonaa- 
ed itself to e^'en■ palate. 



Chafi, 5. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 71 

4. The fairest productions of human wit, after a few penisaLs, 
like gathered flowers, wither in our liands, and lose their fragran- 
cy : but these unfading; plants of paradise become, as we are ac- 
customed to them, still more and more beautiful; their bloom 
appeal's to be daily heightened; fresh odours are emitted, and 
new sweets extracted from them. He who has once tasted their 
excellences, will desire to taste them again ; and he who tastes 
them oftenest, will relisli them best. 

5. And now, could the author flatter himself, that any oric 
would take half the pleasure in reading his work, which lie lias 
talvcn in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his labour. The 
emplojment detached him from the bustle and hurry of life, the 
din of politics, and the noise of folly. Vanity and vexation flew 
away for a season ; care and disquietude came not near his dwell- 
ing. He arose, fresh as the morning, to his task ; the silence of 
the night invited him to pursue it ; and he can truly say, that food 
and rest were not preferred before it, 

6. Every psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaintance with 
it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the last : for then he grieved 
that his work was done. Happier hours than those which have 
been spent in these meditations on the songs of Sion, he never 
expects to see in this world. Very pleasantly did they pass ; 
they moved smoothly and swiftly along : for wlien thus engaged, 
he counted no time. They are gone, but they have left a rSish 
and a fragrance upon the mind ; and the remembrance of them is 

sweet. HORKK. 

SECTION X. 

Character of Alfred, kin^ of England. 

1. The merit of this prince, both m private and public life, 
may^ with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any momuxh 
or citizen, wiiich the annals of any age, or any nation, can pre- 
sent to us. He seems, indeed, to be the complete model of that 
perfect character, which, under the denomination of a sage or wis(3 
man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a 
fiction of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced 
to practice: so happily were all his virtues tempered together ; s(> 
justly were they blended : and so powerfully did each prevent 
the other from exceeding its proper bounds. 

2. He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit, with 
the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseverance, with the 
easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice, with the greatest lenity; 
the greatest rigour in command, with tlie greatest aflability of de- 
portment; the highest capacity and inclination for science, with 
the most shining talents for action. 

3. Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her 
skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all 
bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, 
and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. By living in that 
barbarous age, he was deprived of historians worthy to transmit 
his fame to posterity; and ^ve wish to see him delijieated in more 
lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we might at 
least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, fron^ 
which, as a mnn, it is impossible he could be entirely exempted. 

KUM£ 



72 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

SECTION XI. 

Cfmracter of Queen Elizabeth. 

1. There ai-e few personages in history, who have been more 
exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of friends, 
than queen Ehzabeth; and yet there scarcely is any, whose repu- 
tation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous con- 
sent of posterity. The unusual length of her administration, and 
the strong features of her character, were able to overcome all pre- 
judices; and, obliging her detractors to abate much of their invec- 
tives, and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics, have, at 
last, in spite of political faction^, and what is more, of religious ani- 
mosities, produced a uniform judgment with regard to her conduct. 

2. Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, 
vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit tlie highest praises; 
and appear not to have been surpassed by any person who ever 
filled a throne : a conduct less-iigorous, less imperious, more sin- 
cere, more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite to 
fonn a perfect character. By the force of her mind, she control- 
led all her more active, and stronger qualities, and prevented them 
from nmning into excess. 

3. Her heroism was exempted from all temerity ; her fmgality 
from avarice ; her friendship from partiality; her enteiprise from 
turbulency and a vain amlDition. She guarded not herself, with 
equal care, or equal success, from less iniirmities ; the rivalship of 
beauty, the dcsn*e of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the 
sallies of anger. 

4. Her singular talents for government, were founded equally 
on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great com- 
mand over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendency 
over the people. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the 
throne in more difficult circumstances ; and none ever conducted 
the government with so uniform success and felicity. 

5. Tliough unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true 
secret for managing religious factions, slie preserved her people, 
by her superior ])rudence, from those confusions in which theolo- 
gical controversy had involved all the neigh]:»ouring nations ; and 
though her enemies were the most poweriiil princes of Europe, 
the most active, the most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was 
able, by her vigour, to make deep impressions on their state ; her 
own greatness meanwhile remaining untouclied and unim])aired. 

6. ' riie wise ministers and brave m.cn who ilourished during her 
reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead of lessening 
the applause due to lier, tliey make great addition to it. They 
owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice ; they were 
supported by her constancy; and, witli all their ability, they were 
never able to acquire an undue ascendency over lier. 

r. In her family, in lier court, in her kingdom, she remained 
equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was great over 
her, but- the force of her mind Avas still superior : and the combat 
which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the ftrm 
ness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her anibiiioas sentiments, 

8. The fame of this princess, thoup-;h it has surmounted the 
prejudices both of faction and of !)irotr\% yet lic3 :-till exposed to 
another pic/udicc, v.; hick lo ir.orc dur.ibic, bcLciu:;C^-P.ore natural.; 



Chafu 5. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 7^ 

and which, according to the diiTerent views in wliich we survey 
her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure, or diminishing, 
the lustre of her character. This prejudice is foimded on the con- 
sideration of her sex. 

9. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to h<*, 
sti*uck with the highest admiration of her qualities and extensive 
capacity; but we are also apt to require some more softness of dis- 
position, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amialDle 
weaknesses b}^ which her sex is distinguished. But the true method 
of estimating' her merit, is, to lay aside all these considerations, 
and to consider her merely as a rational being placed in authoiity, 
and intrusted with the government of mankind, hume. 

SECTION XII. 

The slavery of vice, 

1. The slavery produced by vice appeal^ m the dependence 
under which it brings the sinner, to circumstances of external for- 
tune. One of the lavounte characters of liberty, is the indepen- 
dence it bestows. He who is truly a freeman is above all servile 
compliances, and abject subjection. He is able to rest upon him- 
self; and while he regards his superiors with proper deference, 
neither debases himself by cringing to them, nor is tempted to 
purchase their favour by dishonourable means. But the sinner 
nas forfeited every privilege of this nature. 

2. His passions and habits render him an absolute dependent on 
the world, and the world's favour ; on the uncertain goods oi for- 
tune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is by these he sub- 
sists, and among these his happiness is sought ; according as his 
passions determine him to pursue pleasures, riches, or preferments. 
Having no fund within himself whence to draw enjoyment, his only 
resource is in things without. His hopes and fears all hang upon 
the world. He partakes in all its vicissitudes ; and is moved and 
shaken by every wind of fortune. This is to be, in the strictest 
sense, a slave to the v/orld. 

3. Refigion and virtue, on the other hand, confer on the mind 
principles of noble independence. " The upright man is satisfied 
from himself. " He despises not the advantages of fortune, but he 
centres not his happiness in them. With a moderate share of them 
he can be contented : and contentment is felicity, Happy in his 
own integrity, conscious of the esteem of good men, reposing firm 
trust in the providence, and the promises of God, he is exempted 
fi*om sei'\'ile dependence on other things. 

4. He can wrap himself up in a good conscience, and look for- 
ward, without ten-or, to the change of the world. Let all things 
shift around him as they please, he believes that, by the Divine 
ordination, th.ey shall be made to work together in the' issue for his 
^ood : and therefore, having much to hope from God, and little to 
tear from the world, he can be eas^ in every state. One who pos- 
sesses within himself such an establishment of mind, is truly free. 

5. But shall I call that man free, w^ho has nothing that is his own, 
no property assured ; whose veiy heart is not his own, but ren- 
dered tne appendage of extemal' things, and the sport of fortune? 
Is that man free, let his outward condition be ever so splendid, 
whom his imperious passions detain at their call, whom iHcy send 

G 



74 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1, 

forth at their pleasure, to dmdge and toil, and to beg his only en- 
joyment from the casualties of the world ? 

6. Is he free, who must flatter and lie to compass his ends; 
who must bear with this man's caprice, and that man's scorn ; 
must profess friendship where he hates, and respect, where he 
contemns; who is not at liberty to appear in his own colours, nor 
to speak his own sentiments ; who dares not be honest, lest he 
should be poor ? 

7. Believe it, no chains bind so hard, no fetters are so heavy, 
as those which fasten the comipted heart to this treachei-ous 
world; no dependence is more contemptible than that under 
which the voluptuous, the covetous, or the ambitious man, lies to 
the means of pleasure, gain, or power. Yet this is the boasted 
libeity, which vice promises, iis the recompense of setting us free 
from the salutary restraints of virtue. blaih. 

SECTION XIII. 
The man of intet^rity, 

1. It will not take much time 'to delineate the character of the 
man of integrity, as by its nature it is a plain one, and easily under- 
stood. He is one, wno makes it his constant nile to follow the 
road of duty, according as the word of God, and the voice of his 
conscience, point it out to him. He is not guided merely by 
affections, which may sometimes give the colour of virtue to a 
. jose and unstable character. 

2. The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind, 
which determines him to esteem notning but what is honourable ; 
and to abhor whatever is base or unworthy, in moral conduct 
Hence we find him ever the same ; at all times, the tinisty friend, 
the affectionate relation, Ishe conscientious man of business, the 
pious worshipper, the public spirited citizen. 

3. He assumes no borrowed appearance. He seeks no mask 
to cover him ; for he acts no studied part ; but he is indeed what 
he appears to be, full of truth, candour, and humanity. In all his 
pursuits, he knows no path, but the fair and direct one ; and would 
much rather fail of success, than attain it by reproachful means. 

4. He never shows us a smiling countenance, v/hile he meditates 
evil against us in his heart. He never praises us among our friends; 
and then joins in traducing us among our enemies. We shall never 
find one part of his cliaracter at variance with another. In his 
manners, he is simple and unaffected ; in all his proceedings, open 
and consistent. blair, 

SECTION XIV 
Gentleness. 

1. I BEGIN v/ith distinguishing true gentleness from passive 
tameness of spirit, and from unlimited compliance v/ith the manners 
of others. That passive tameness, which submits, without oppo- 
sition, to every encroachment of tlie violent and assuming, forms 
no part of Christian duty; but, on the contrary, is destructive of 
general happiness and order. That milimited complaisance, which, 
on every occasion, falls in with the opinions and manners of others, 
is so far from being a virtue, that it is itself a vice, ancf the parent 
of m?ny vices. 

2. It overthrows all steadiness of principle ; and produces that 
i^iful conformity with the worlid, which taiiUs the v/hole charac- 



amfi, 5. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 75 

tcr. In the present corrupted state of human manners, always to 
assent and to comply, is the very worst maxim we can adopt. It 
is impossible to support the purity and dignity of Christian morals, 
without opposing the world on various occasions, even though we 
should stand alone. 

3. That gentleness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to be 
carefully distuiguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the 
fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just light from 
fear. It gives up no important tnith from flattery. It is indeed 
not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a 
manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give it any real 
value. Upon this solid ground only, the polish of gentleness can 
with advantage be superinduced. 

4. It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for vir- 
tue and tnith, but to harshness and severity, to pride and arro- 
gance, to violence and oppression. It is properly, that pait of the 
great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilling to give pain to 
any of our brethren. Compassion prompts us to relieve their 
wants. Forbearance prevents us from retaliating their injuries. 
Meekness restrains our angry passions ; candour, our seveije judg- 
ments. 

5. Gentleness coiTCCts whatever is offensive in our manners; 
and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate 
the burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, is extensive. 
It is not, like some other virtues, called forth only on peculiar 
emergences ; but it is continually in action, when we are engaged 
m intercourse with men. It ought to form our address, to regulate 
our speech, and to diffiise itselt over our whole behaviour. 

6. We must not, however, confound this gentle ** wisdom which 
is from above," with that artificial courtesy, that studied smooth- 
ness of manners, which is learned m the school of the woiid. 
Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty may possess 
Too often they are employed by the artful, as a snare ; too oitep 
affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the baseness of 
their minds. We cannot, at the same time, avoid observing the 
homage, which, even in such instances, the world is constrained 
to pay to virtue. 

7. In order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary to 
assume somewhat, that may at least caiTy its appearance. Virtue 
is the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, when the sub- 
stance is wanting. The imitation of its forni has been reduced into 
an art ; and, in the commerce of life, the first study of all who 
would either gain the esteem, or win the hearts of others, is to 
learn the speech, and to adopt the manners, of candour, gentle- 
ness, and humanity. 

8. But that gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, 
has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart; and let me add, 
nothing except what flows from the heart, can render even exter- 
nal manners truly pleasing. For no assumed behaviour can at all 
times hide the real character. In that unaffected civility which 
springs from a gentle mind, there is a chami infinitely more pow- 
erful, than in all the studied manners of the most finished courtier. 

9. True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to him 
who made us, and to the common nature of which we all ^are» 



76 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants ; and from 
Just views of the condition, and the duty of man. It is native feel- 
ing, heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which 
easily relents ; which teels for every thing that is human ; and is 
backward and slow to inflict the least wound. 

10. It is aff*able in its address, and mild in its demeanour ; ever 
ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others; breathing 
habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long-sut- 
fering to enemies. It exercises authority with moderation ; admin- 
isters reproof with tenderness ; confers favours with ease and mod- 
esty. It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It con- 
tends not eagerly about trifles ; slow to contradict, and still slower 
to blame .; but prompt to allay dissension, and to restore peace. 

IL It neither intermeddles unnecessarily with the aflairs, nor 
pries inquisitively into the secrets of others. It delights above all 
things to alleviate distress; and, if it cannot diy up the falling- 
tear, to sooth at least the grieving heart. Where it has not the 
power of being useful, it is never burdensome. It seeks to please, 
rather than to shine and dazzle ; and conceals with care that su- 
periority, either of talents or of rank, which is oppressive to those 
who are beneath it. 

12. In a word, it is that spirit and that tenour of manners, which 
fne gosj^el of Christ enjoins, when it commands us, **to bear one 
another's burdens ; to rejoice witii those who rejoice, and to weep 
witli tliose who weep ; to please every one his neighbour for his 
good ; to be kind and tender-hearted ; to be pitiful and courteous ; 
to support the weak, and to be patient towai'ds all meji." — blair. 



CHAPTER VI. 

PATHETIC PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Trial and execution oftheF^ARh o/'Strafford, who fell a sacrifice 

to the violence of the times, in the reign o/* Charles the First. 

1. The earl of Strafford defended himself against the accusa- 
tions oi: the house of Commons, with all the presence of mind, judg- 
nient, and sagacity, that could be expected from innocence and 
ability. His children were placed beside him, as he was thus de- 
fending his life, and the cause of his royal master. After he had, 
in a icing and eloquent speech, delivered without premeditation, 
confuted all the accusations of his enemies, he thus drew to a con- 
clusion. 

2. *' But, my lords, I have troul^led you too long : longer than I 
should have done, but for the sake of these dear pledges, which 
a saint in heaven has left me." — Upon this he paused ; dropped a 
tear ; looked upon his children ; and proceeded. — " What I forfeit 
for myself is a trifle : that my indiscretions should reach my pos- 
terity, wounds me to the heart. 

3. ** Pardon my infirmity.-— Something I should have added, 
but I am not able: and therefore I let it pass. And now, my lords, 
for myself. I have long been taught, that the afflictions of this life 
are overpaid by that eternal weight of glory, which awaits the inno- 
cent And so, my lords, even so, with the utmost tranquillity, I 



Chafi. e. PATHETIC PIECES. 77 

submit myself to your judgment, whether that iudgment be life or 
death: not my will, but thine, O God, be done ! 

4. His elwjuence and innocence induced those judtjes to pitVj 
who were the most zealous to condemn him. THe king himself 
went to the house of lords, and spoke for some time in his defence ; 
out the spirit of vengeance, which had been chained for eleven 
years, was now roused ; and nothing but his blood could give the 
people satisfaction. He was condemned by both houses of parlia- 
ment ; and nothing remained but for the king to give his consent 
to the bill of attainder. 

5. But in the present commotions, the consent of the king would 
very easily be dispensed with; and imminent danger miglit attend 
his refusal. Charles, however, who loved Strafford tenderly, hesi- 
tated, and seemed reluctant ; trying every expedient to put off so 
dreadful an office, as that of signing the warrant for his Execution. 
While he continued in this agitation of mind, and state of sus- 
pense, his doubts were at last silenced by an act of grcat magna- 
nimity in the condemned lord. 

6. He received a letter from that unfortunate nobleman, desiring 
that his life might be made a sacrifice to obtain reconciliation be- 
tween the king and his people : adding, that he was prepared to 
die ; and that to a willing mind there could be no injury. This 
instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, wlto 
complied with his request. He consented to sign the fatal bill by 
commission ; and Straiford was beheaded on Tower-hill ; behavine 
with all that composed dignity of resolution, which was expected 
fisom liis character. goldsmith, 

SECTION 11. 
j^n eminent mstance of true fortitude, 

1. All who have been distinguished as servants of God, or ben- 
efactors of men; all v/ho, in perilous situations, have acted their 
part with sucli honour as to render their names illustrious through 
succeeding ages, have been eminent for fortitude of mind. Of this 
we have one conspicuous example in the apostle Paul, v/hom it will 
be instructive for us to view in a remarkable occun'ence of his life, 

2. After having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mis- 
sion called him to go to Jerusalem, where he knew that he was to 
encounter the utmost violence of his enemies. Just before lie set 
sail, he called together the elders of his favourite church at Ephe- 
sus; and, in a pathetic speech, v/hich does grea.t honour to his 
character, gave them his last farewell. Deeply affected by their 
knowledge of the certain dangers to vv^hich he was exposing him- 
self all the assembly were filled with distress, and melted into tears. 

^ 3. The circumstances were such, as might have conveyed dejec- 
tion even into a resolute mind ; and would have totally overwhelm- 
ed the feeble. " They all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck, and 
kissed him ; sorrowing most of all for the words which he spoke, 
that they should see his face no more. "—-What were then the sen- 
timents, what was the language, of this great and good man? 
Hear the words which spoke his firm and undaunted nxind. 

4. ** Behold, I go boimd in the spirit, to Jerusalem, not know- 
ing the things that shall befall me there ; save that the Holy 
Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and afflictions 
abide me. But none of these thines move me ; neither count I 

G2 



rs THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

my life dear to myself, so tliat I might finish my course with joy, 
and the ministry which I have received of the Lord Jesus, to tes - 
tify the gospel of the grace of God." 

5. There was uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, of a 
brave and a virtuous man. Such a man knows not what it is to 
shrink from danger, when conscience points out his path. In that 
path he is determined to wallc, let the consequences be what they 
may. This was the magnanimous behaviour of tliat great apostle, 
when he had persecution and distress full in view, 

6. Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent man, 
when the time of his last suffering approached ; and i-emark the 
majesty, and the ease, with whicn he looked on death. ** I am 
now ready to be oiFered, and the time of my departure is at hand. 
I have f'^.'ight the good fight. I have finished my course. I have 
kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of 
rignteousness.'* 

7. How many years of life does such a dying moment overbal- 
ance? Who would not choose, in this manner, to go off the stage, 
with such a song of triumph in his mouth, rather than prolong his 
existence through a wretched old age, stained with sin and shame? 

BLAIR, 

SECTION in. 

The good marCs comfort in affliction, 

1. The religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitude against 
the approach of evil ; but, supposing evils to fall upon us with their 
heaviest pressure, it lightens the load by many consolations to which 
others are strangers. While bad men trace, in the calamities with 
which they are visited, the hand of an offended sovereign, Chris* 
tians are taught to view them as the well-intended chastisements 
of a merciful Father. 

2. The}^ hear amidst them, that still voice which a good con- 
science brings to their ear: **Fear not, for I am with thee; be 
not dismayed, for I am thy God. " They apply to themselves the 
comfortable promises with which the gospel abounds. They dis- 
cover in these the happy issue decreed to their troubles ; and wait 
with patience till Providence shall have accomplished its great and 
good designs. 

3. In the mean time. Devotion opens to them its blessed and holy 
sanctuary : that sanctuary in which the wounded heart is healea, 
and the weary mind is at rest ; where the cares of the world are 
forgotten, where its tumults are hushed, and its miseries disap- 
pear ; where greater objects open to our view than any which the 
world presents ; where a more serene sky shines, and a sweeter 
and calmer light beams on the afflicted heart. 

4. In those moments of devotion, a pious man, pouring out his 
wants and sorrows to an Almighty Supporter, feels that he is not 
left solitary and forsaken in a vale of wo. God is with him ; Christ 
and the holy Spirit are with him ; and though he^ should be be- 
reaved of every friend on earth, he can look up in heaven to a 
Friend that will never desert him. blair. 

SECTION IV. 
The close of life. 
1. When we contemplate the close of life ; the termination of 
man's designs and hopes ; the silence that now reigns among those 



'^Chafi;6, PATHETIC PIECES 79 

* who, p, little while ago, were so busy, or so gay ; who can avoid 

■ being touched with sensations at once awfiil and tender ? What 

heart but then warms with the glow of humanity ? In whose eye 

does not the tear gather, on revolving the fate of passing and shoit- 

lived man ? 

2. Behold the poor man who lays down at last the harden of his 
Avearisome life. No more shall he groan under the load of pov- 
erty and toil. No more shall he hear the insolent calls of the mas* 
ter^ from whom he received his scanty wages. No more shall he 
be raised from needful slumber on his bed of straw, nor be hur- 
3ried away from his homely meal, to undergo the repeated labours 
i ^f the day. 

3. While his humble grave is preparing, and a few poor and 
d ecayed neighboui^ are 'carrying him thither, it is good for us to 
t 'linlt, that this man too was our brother ; that for him the aged 
a nd destitute wife, and the needy children, now weep ; that, neg- 
li 'cted as he was by the world, he possessed, perhaps, both a sound 
u aderstanding, and a worthy heart ; and is now carried by angels 
tt ) rest in Abraham's bosom. 

4. At no great distance fix)m him, the grave is opened to receive 
tl le rich and proud man. For, as it is said with emphasis in the 
p arable, ** the rich man also died, and was buried. " He also died, 
r as riches prevented not his sharing the same fate with thepoor 
11 lan ; perhaps, through luxury, they accelerated his doom. Tnen, 
it ideed, **the mourners go about the streets;" and, while, in all 
tl le pomp and magnificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his 
h eii^, impatient to examine his will, are looking on one another 
V ith jealous eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the divi- 
s Ion of his substance. 

5. One day, we see carried along, the coffin of the smiling infant ; 
t he flower just nipped as it began to blossom in the parent's view: 
a nd the next day, we behold the young man, or youn^ woman, of 
\: 'looming form and promising hopes, laid in an untimely grave. 
^ Vhile the fimeral is attended by a numerous unconcerned company, 
1 v^ho are discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or 
f he ordinary aifairs of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the house 
<3 'f mourning, and represent to themselves what is passing there. 

6. There we should see a disconsolate family, sitting in silent 
§Tief, thinking of the sad breach that is made in their litSe society; 
and with tears in their eyes, looking to the chamber that is now 
left vacant, and to every memorial that presents itself of their de- 
parted friend. By such attention to the woes of others, the selfish 
iiardness of our hearts Avill be gradually softened, and melted down 
into humanity. 

7. Another day, we follow to the grave, one who, in old age. 
and after a long career of life, has in lull maturity sunk at last into 
rest. As we are going along to the mansion of the dead, it is na- 
tural for us to think, and to discourse, of all the changes which 
such a person has seen during the course of his life. He has pass- 
ed, it is likely, through varieties of fortune. He has experienced 
prosperitv, and adversity. He has seen families and kindreds rise 
and fall. He has seen peace and war succeeding in their turns ; the 
face of his country undergoing many alterations; and the very 
city in which he dwelt, rising, in a manner, new ai^ound him. 



m THE ENGLISH READER. Part V 

8. After all he has beheld, his eyes are now closed for ever.' 
He was becoming a stranger in the midst aof a new succesvsion of 

men. A race who knew him not, had arisen to fill the earth. 

Thus passes the world away. Throughout all ranks and condi- 
tions, y one generation passeth, and another generation cometh ;** 
and this great inn is by turas evacuated and replenished, by troops 
of succeeding pilgrims. 

9. O vain and inconstant world ! O fleeting aiid transient life I 
When will the sons of men learn to think of thee as they ought > 
When will they leam humanity from the afflictions of their breth- 
ren ; or moderaticMi and wisdom, from the sense of their own fiigi- . 
tive state? blaiiu ' 

SECTION V. 

Exalted society, and the renewal of virtuous connexions, tivo 
sources of future felicity, 

1. Besides the felicity which springs from perfect love, theit ^ 
are two circumstances which particularly enhance the blessednest > 
of that *' multitude who stand before the throne ;" these are, ac - 
oess to the most exalted society, and renewal of the most tende c 
connexions. The former is pointed out in the Scripture, by 
^'joining the innumerable company of angels, and the general as - 
sembly and church of the first-born ; by sitting down with Abr.n - 
ham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven ;" a prora - 
ise which opens the sublimest prospects to the human mind. 

2. It allows good men to entertain the hope, that, separated fron i 
all the dregs of the liuman mass, fvom that mixed and poUutec 1 
crowd in the midst of which they now dv/ell, they shall be per - 
mitted to mingle with prophets, patriarchs, and apostles, with al 1 
those great and illustrious spirits, who have shone in former age^ ; 
as the servants of God, or the benefactors of men; whose deed!> 
we are accustomed to celebrate ; v/hose steps we now foUov/ at u 
distance; and whose names we pronounce with veneration. : 

3. United to this high assembly, the blessed, at the same timCjl, 
renew those ancient connexions with virtuous friends, which hadl 
been dissolved by death. The prospect of this awakens in tho 
heart, the most pleasing and tender sentiment that perhaps eai i 
fill it, in this mortal state. For of all the sorrows which we ar< i 
here. doomed to endure, none is so bitter as that occasioned by thxi 
fatal stroke which separates us, in appearance for ever, froni 
those to whom either nature or friendsliip had intimately joined oui.* 
hearts. 

4. Memoiy, from time to time, renews the anguish ; opens th(j 
wound which seemed once to have been closed; and, by recallins; 
joys that are past and gone, touches every spring of painful sensi- 
bility. In these agonizing moments, how relieving the thought, that 
the separation is only temporary, not eternal ; that there is a time 
to come of re-union with those with whom our happiest days were 
spent : whose joys and sorrows once were ours ; whose piety and 
virtue cheered and encouraged us ; and from whom after we shall 
have landed on the peaceful shore where they dwell, no revolu- 
tions of nature shall ever be able to part us more ! Such is tlie 
society of the blessed above. Of such are the multitude composed, 
who ** stand before the throne. " blair. 



Qhati. 6. PATHETIC PIECES. 81 

SECTION VI. 
The clemency and amiable character of the patriarch Joseph. 

1. No human character exhibited in the records of Scripture, is 
more remarkable and instructive than that of th^ patriarch Joseph. 
He is one whom we behold tried in all the vicissitudes of fortune; 
from the condition of a slave, rising to be ruler of the land of 
Eg\'pt ; and in every station acquiring, by his viitue and wisdom, 
favour with God and man. When overseer of Potiphar's house, 
his fidelity v/as proved by strong temptations, which he honoura- 
bly resisted. 

2. When thrown into prison by the artifices of a false woman, 
his integrity and prudence soon rendered him conspicuous, even in 
that dark mansion. When called into the presence of Pharaoh, 
the wise and extensive plan which he formed for saving the king- 
dom from the miseries of impending famine, justly raised him. to a 
high station, wherein his abilities were eminently displayed in the 
public service. 

3. But in his whole histoiy, there is no circumstance so striking, 
and interesting, as his behaviour to his brethren who had sold him 
into slavery. The moment in which he made himself known to 
them, was the most critical one of his life, and the most decisive of 
his character. It is such as rarely occurs in the course of human 
events ; and is calculated to draw the highest attention of all who 
are endowed with any degree of sensibility of heart. 

4. From the whole tenour of the nan'ation it appears, that 
though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Eg)^pt, made 
Ifimself strange to them, yet from the beginning he intended to 
(iiscover himself; and studied so to conduct the discovery, as might 
render the surprise of joy complete. For this end, by affected 
severity, he took measures for bnnging down into Egypt all hi^ 
lather's children. 

5. They wxre now arrived there ; and Benjamin among the rest» 
who was his younger brother by the same mother, and was parti- 
cularly beloved by Joseph. -Him he threatened to detain; and 
seemed willing to allow the rest to depart. This incident renewed 
their distress. They all knew their father's extreme anxiety about 
the safety of Benjamin, and with what difficulty he bad yielded to 
his undertaking this journey. 

6. Should he be prevented from retuitiing, they dreaded that 
,^rief would oveipower the old man's spirits, and prove fatal to his 
life. Judah, therefore, who had particularly urged the necessity 
of Benjamin's accompanying his brothers, and had solemnly pledged 
himself to their father for his safe return, craved, upon this occa- 
sion, an audience of the governor ; and gave him a fuU account of 
the circumstances of Jacob's family. 

7. Nothing can be more interesting and pathetic than this dis- 
course of Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, he paints in 
all the colours of simple and natural eloquence, the distressed 
situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the close of life ; long 
afflicted for the loss of a favourite son, whom he supposed to 
have been torn in pieces hj a l^east of prey ; labouring now un- 
der anxious concern about His youngest son, the child of his old 
age, who alone was left alive of his mother, and whom nothing but 



R2 THE ENGLISH HEADER. Part I. 

tlic calamities of severe famine could have moved a tender father 
to send from home, and expose to the danj^^ers of a foreijpi land. 

8. **lf we bring him not back with ns, we shall bring down 
the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, with sorrow, to the 
gTiwe. I pnjy thee therefore let thy servant abide, instead of llie 
)n>inig man, a l^ondman to our lord. For how shall I go up to mv 
father, and Benjamin not with me? lest I see the evil that shiill 
come on my father. " 

9. Upon this relation Joseph could no longer restrahi himself. 
The tender ideas of his fatlier, and his father's house, of his an 
cient liome, his country, and his kindred, of the distress of his fami- 
ly, and his own exaltation, all rushed tcx) strongly upon his mind to 
l^ear any farther concealment. **He cried, Cause every man to 
I^D out trom me ; and he wept aloud." 

10. The tears whicli lie sued were not the tears of grief. They 
were the ])urst of affection. They were tlie effusions of a heart 
overflowing with all the tender sensibilities of nature. Formerly 
he had been moved in the same maivner, when he first saw his 
!)rethren before him. ** His bowels yearned upon them; he sought 
tor a place Aviiere to wee}). He went into his chamber; and then 
vvaslied his face and returned to them." 

11. At tliat period his generous plans were not completed. But 
now, when there was no failher occasion for constraining himself, 
iie gave free vent to the strong emotions of his heart. The first 
minister to the king of l\g}'i)t was not ashamed to show, that he 
felt as a man, and a brother. " He wept aloud; and the Egyptians, 
and the house of Pliaraoh, heaixl him." 

12. Tiie first words which his swelling heart allowed him to 
pronounce, are the most suitable to such an affecting situation 
tliat were ever uttered; — **I am Josepli ; dotli my father yet 
live?" — Wliat could he, wliat ouglit he, in that impassioned mo- 
naent, to have said more ? 'I'his is the voice of nature herself, 
sj)eaking her own langniage ; and it j)enetrates the lieart ; no pomp 
of expression; no parade of kindness; but strong iiHection has- 
tening to utter what it sti-ongly felt. 

13.' ** His brethren could not answer him; for they were tix)ubled 
at his ])resence." Their silence is :is expres^:ive ot those emotions 
of repentance and sliame, which, on this amazing discovery, filleil 
their oreasts, and stopped their utterance, as the few words which 
.Joseph s])eaks, are exi)ressive of the generous agitations which 
struggled for vent within him. 

14 No painter could seize a more striking moment for display- 
ing the charaatoristical features of the human heart, than what h 
here presented. Never was there a situation of more tcfuler and 
virtuous joy, on the one hiuid ; nor, on the other, of more over- 
whelming confusion and conscious guilt. In the simple naniition 
of the sacred historian, it is set before us with greater energy and 
higher effect, than if it had been wrought up with all the colour- 
ing of the most admired nuxlern eloquence. blaih. 

SECTION VIL 

ALTAMONT. 

lyie fvllowiiiP account of uti affcctint^^ inouniful exit, is related 
ny Dr. Yvuri^, who was /ircsrnt\u the meiajicholy scene. 
I, The sad evening bcfoix; tlui death of the noble youth, wImmc 



tfiafi. G. PATHETIC PIECES. . 89 

rast hours suegested the most solemn and awful reflections, I was 
with him. No one was present, but his physician, and an inti- 
mate whom he loved, and whom he had niineci. At my coming in, 
he said, •* You and the physician are come too late. I have neither 
kt'e nor hope. You both aim at miracles. You would raise the dead ! " 

2. Heaven, I said, was mercihil — "Or," exclaimed he, — •*I 
could not have been thus guilty. What has it not done to bless and 
to save me! — I have been too strong for Omnipotence! I have 

plucked down ruin." ^I said, the blessed Redeemer, — ** Hold i 

hold ! you wound me! — ^That is the rock on which I split: — I 
denied fiis name !" 

3. Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing from 
the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain would 
pennit, till the clock struck: Then with vehemence he exclain>- 
ed; **Oh! time! time! it is fit thou shouldst thus strike thy mur- 
derer to the heart! — How art thou fled for ever ! — A month !— 
Oh, for a single week.! I ask not for years! though an age were 
too little for the much I have to do." 

4. On my saying, we could not do too much: that heaven was a 

olessed place "So much the worse. — 'Tis lost! 'tis lost! — 

Heaven is to me the severest part of hell!" Soon after, I proposed 
prayer, — **Pray you that can, I never prayed. I cannot pray— 
nor need I. Is not Heaven on my side already ? It closes with my 
conscience. Its severest strokes but second my own. " 

5. Observing that his friend was much touched at this, even to 
tears — (who could forbear? I cou'«'. not) — with a most affectionate 
look he said, " Keep those tears for thyself. I have undone thee. — 
Dost thou wxep for me ? that is ciTiel. What can pain me more.'*" 

6. Here his friend, too much affected, would have left him. — 
** No, stay — tliou stiJl mayst hope ; therefore hear me. How 
madly have I talked! How madly hast thou listened and believed! 
but look on my present state, as a full answer to thee, and to my- 
self. This body is all weakness and pain ; but my soul, as if stung 
up by torment to gi^eater strength and spirit, is full powerfiil to 
reason ; full mighty to suffer. And that, which thus triumphs 
within the jaws of immortality, is, doul^tless, immortal — And, as 
for a Deity, nothing less than an Almighty could inflict what I 
feel." 

7. I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary confessor, 
on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, extorted by 
the rack of nature, when lie thus, very passionately exclaimed: — 
" No, no! let me speak on, I have not long to speak. — My much 
injured friend! my soul, as my body, lies in ruins; m scattered 
fi-agments of broken thought. 

8. '* Remorse for the past, tlirows my thought on the future. 
Worse dread of the future, strikes it back on the past. I turn, 
and turn, and find no ray. I3idst thou feel half the mountain that 
is on me, thou wouldst sti-uggle with the martyr for his stake; and 
]:)less Heaven for tlie flames! — ^that is not an everlasting flame; 
that is not an unquenchable fire." 

9. How were we struck! yet, soon after, still more. With what 
an eye of distraction, what a face of despair, he cried out ! ** My 
principles have poisoned my friend ; my extravagiuice has beggar- 
ed my boy! my unkindness has murdered my wifc!^ — And is there 



i 



§4 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

another hell? Oh! thou blasphemed, yet indulgent LORD GOD ! 
Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown!" 

10. Soon after, his understanding failed. His terrified imagina- 
tion uttered horrors not to be repeated, or ever forgotten. And ere 
the sun (which, I hope, has seen few like him) arose, the gay, 
young, noble, ingenious, accomplished, and most wretched Alta- 
mont, expired ! 

11. If this is a man of pleasure, what is a man of pain ? How 
quick, how total, is the transit of such persons! In what a dismal 
gloom they set for everl How short, alas ! the day of their re- 
joicing! — For a moment they glitter — they dazzle! In a moment, 
where are they ? Oblivion covers their memories. Ah ! would it 
did ! Infamy snatches them from oblivion. In the long living an- 
nals of infamv their triumphs are recorded. 

12. Thy sufferines, poor Altamont! still bleed in the bosom of 
the heart-stricken friend — ^fbr Altamont had a friend. He might 
have had many. His transient morning might have been the 
dawn of an immortal day. His name might have been gloriously 
enrolled in the records of eternity. His memoiy might have left a 
sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friend, salutary 
to the succeeding generation. 

13. With what capacity was he endowed! with vv^hat advan- 
tages, for being gre?ttly good! But with the talents of an angel, a 
UTian may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the supreme point, 

'udging right in all else, but aggravates his folly; as it shows 
ini wrong, though blessed with the best capacity of being riglit. 

DR. YOUNG. 

CHAPTER VII. 

DIALOGUES. 

SECTION I 

DEMOCRITUS AND HP:RACLITUS.* 

l^he vices and follies of men should cxite comjiassion rather 
than ridicule, 

DemocHtus. I find it impossible to reconcile myself to a melan- 
choly philosophy. 

lieraclitus. And I am equally unable to approve of that vain 
T)hilosophy, which teaches men to despise and ridicule one another. 
To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in a wretched and 
painfiil light. 

Denu Thou art too much affected with the state of things ; and 
this is a source of misery to thee. 

Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy mirth 
and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than the philosopher. 
Does it not excite thy compassion, to see mankind so frail, so 
blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue t 

Dem, I am excited to laughter, when I see so much imperti- 
nence and folly. 

Her. And yet, after all, they, who are the objects of thy ridicule, 

* Democritus and Heiaclitus were two ancient philosophers, the former 
©f whom laughed, and the latter wept, at the ejrors and ibilies of mankind. 



OMp.T. DIALOGUES. «?' 

inchide, not cnly mankind in general, but the persons with whom, 
thou livest, thy friends, thy family, nay even thyself^ 

JDem, I care very little for all the silly persons I meet wlth^ 
and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their folly. 

Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wisdom not* 
humanity, to msult rather than pity them. But is it certain, tliat 
thou ait not as extravagant as they are ? 

Dern. I presume that I am not; since, in eveiy point, my senti- 
ments are the veiy reverse of theirs. 

Her, There ai'e follies of different kinds. By constantly amusing 
thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, thou mayst ren- 
der thyself equally ridiculous and culpable. 

Dem, Thod art at liberty to indulge such sentiments ; and to 
weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For my part, 
I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with the levities and ill con- 
duct of the world about me. Are not all men foolish, or UTegulao* 
in their lives ? 

Her, Alas! there is but too much reason to believe, they arc soi 
and on this ground, I pity and deplore their condition. We agree ir 
this point, that men do not conduct themselves according to reason- 
able and just principles: but I, who do not suffer myself to act 
as they do, must yet regard the dictates of my understanding and 
feelings, which compel me to love them ; ^nd that love fills me 
with compassion for their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou 
condemn me for pitying my G%yn species, my brethren, person* 
bom in the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes 
and privileges ^ If thou shouldst enter a hospital, where sick and 
v.'ounded persons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite 
thy mirth? And yet, the evils of the body bear no comparison 
with those of the mind. Thou wouldst ceitainly blush at thy bar 
barity, if thcu hadst been so unfeeling as to laugh at or despise a 
poor miserable being, who had lost one of his legs: and yet thou art 
so aestitute of humanity, as to ridicule those, v/ho appear to be 
deprived of the noble powei-s of the understanding, by the Uttlc 
regard which they pay to its dictates, 

Dern, He who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the loss i% 
not to be imputed to himself : but he who rejects the dictates of 
reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives himself of their aid. 
The loss ori.£,inates in his own folly. 

Her, Ah ! so much the more is he to be pitied ! A furious ma- 
niac, who should pluck out his own eyes, would desei*ve more 
compassion than an ordinary blind man. 

De7n. Come, let us accommodate the business. There is some- 
thing to be said on each side of the question. There is ever)^ where 
reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. The world is ridicu- 
lous, and I laugh at it : it is deplorable, and thou lamentest over it. 
Every person views it in his own way, and according to his own 
temper. One point is unquestionable, that mankind are prepos- 
terous : to-think right and to act well, we must think and act differ- 
ently from them, lo submit to tlie authority, and follow the 
example of the greater pait of men, would render us foolish -and 
miserable. 

//f r. All this is, indeed, true ; but then, thou hast no real love or 
feeling for thv species. The calamities of mankind excite thy 

H 



86 THE ENGLISH READER. Fart h 

mirth: and this proves that thou hast no regard for meii, nor any 
true respect for the virtues which they have unhappily aban- 
doned. Fenelon, Archbishop, of Cambray, 

SECTION n. 

DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON. 

Genuine virtue commands resfiect, even from the bad, 
Di07iysius, Amazing! What do I see? It is Pythias just ar- 
rived, -^It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it possible. He is 
come to die, and to redeem his friend ! i,r>? 

-Pythias, Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confinement, 
with no other views, than to pay to Heaven the vows I had made ; 
to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice ; and 
to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquil 'and satisfied. 

Dio, But why dost thou return ? Hast thou no fear of death? 
Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus voluntarily? 

Pt^. I return to suffer, though I have not deserved death. Every 
principle of honour and goodness, forbids me lo allow my friend to 
die for me. 

Z)/o. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself ? 

- Pi/. No ; I love him as myself. But I am persuaded that J ought 
to suffer death, rather than my friend ; since it was Pythias v/hom 
thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should 
suffer, to deliver me from tlie death which was designed, not for 
him, but for me only. 

Dio, But thou su]3posest, that it is as unjust ♦'o inflict death upon 
thee, as upon thy friend. 

Py, Very true ; we are both perfectly innocent ; and it is equally 
unjust to make either of us suffer. 

Bio, Why dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to put him 
to death, instead of thee ? 

Py, It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either on Da- 
naon or on myself; but Pythias were highly culpable to let I)amon 
suffer that death, which the tyrant had prepared for Pythias only. 

Dio, Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no 
other view, than to save the life of a friend, by losing thy own ? 

Py, I return, in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injustice 
which it is common for tyrants to inflict ; and, with respect "to Da- 
mon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the danger he in- 
curred by his generosity to me. 

Dio, And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. Didst 
thou not really fear, that Pythias would never return; imd that thou 
wouldst be put to death on his account ? 

Da, I was but too well assured, that Pythias would punctually 
return; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise, 
than to preserve his life. Would to heaven, that his relations and 
friends had forcibly detained him ! He would then have lived for 
the comfoi-t and benefit of good men ; and I should have the satis- 
faction of dying for him ! 

Dio, What! Does life displease thee ? 

Da, Yes ; it displeases me when I see and feel the power of a 
tyrant. 

Dio, It is v/ell ! Thou shall see him no more. I will order thee 
to be put to death immediately. 

Py, Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with his 



Chafi.7, DIALOGUES. 87 

dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was devoted by 
tliee to destruction, I come to submit to it, that I tnay redeem my 
friend. Do not refuse me this consolation in my last hour. 

Dio, I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my power 
at defiance. 

Do, Thou canst not, then, endure virtue. ^ 

Dio, No : I cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue, which 
contemns lite ; which dreads no punishment ; and which is insen- 
sible to the charms of riches and pleasure. ; 

D(z, Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, wiiich is not insen- 
sible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friendship. 

Dio, Guards, take P}i:hias to execution. We shall see whether 
Damon will continue to despise my authority. 

Da, Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure, 
has merited his life, and deserved thy favour ; but I have excited 
thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy power, in order to save 
him ; be satisfied, then, with this sacrifice^ and put me to death, 

Py, Hold, Dionysius! remember, it was Pythias alone who 
cifended thee: Damon could not— - 

Dio, Alas! what do I see and hear! where am I? How mis- 
erable ; and how v/orthy to be so! I have hitherto known nothing 
of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error. All my 
power and honours are msufficient to produce love. I caimot boast 
of ha\'ing acquired a single friend, in the course of a reign of 
thirty years. And yet these two pei'^ons, in a private condition, 
iove one another tenderly, mireservedly connde m each other, are 
mutuaDy happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation. 

Py, How could st thou, who hast never loved any person, expect 
to have fiiends ? If thou hadst loved and respected men, thou 
wouldst have secured their love and respect Thou hast feared 
mankind ; and they fear thee ; they detest thee. 

Dio, Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third friend^ 
in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives; and I will load you 
wijth riches. 

Da, We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and, in regard 
to thy friendship, v/e cannot accept or enjoy it, tUl thou become 
good and just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected 
with none but trembling slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved 
and esteemed by men of free and gererous minds, thou must be 
virtuous, affectionate, disinterested, beneficent ; and know how to 
live in a sort of equality with those who share and deserve thy 
friendship, Fenelon, Archbishofi of Carnh^ay, 

SECTION III. 

LOCKE AND BAYLE, 

Christianity defended against the cavils of scepticis7?t,. 

Bayle, Yes, we both were philosophers ; but my philosophy 
was tne deepest. • You dogmatized; I doubted. 

Locke. Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philosophy? 
It may be a good beginning of it ; but it is a bad end, 

Baylc, No: — ^the moi^ profound our searches are into the nature 
of things, the more uncertainty we shall find ; and the most subtle 
minds see objections and difficulties in every system, which are 
<n^erlooked or undi.icoverable by ordinary understandings. 

Locke, It would je better then to be no philosopher, aHd to ccr*- 



m THE ENGLISH READER. fart U 

tinue in the XTil^r herd of mankind, that wie may have the con* 
renience of th-nking that one knows something. ' I find that the 
i^yes which nritui*e has given me, see many things verv clearly, 
though some are out of their reach, or discei-ned but dimfy. What 
opinion ought 1 to have of a physician, who should offer me an 
eye-water, the use of which vrould at first so sharpen my sight, as 
to cany it farther than ordinaiy vision; but would in the end put 
them out? Your philosophy is to the eyes of the mind, what J liave 
supposed the doctor's nostrum to be to those of the body. It actual* 
ly orou^-ht your own excellent understanding, which was by nature 
quick-sighted, and rendered more so by art and a subtilty of logic 
peculiar to yourself — it brought, I say, your very acute under- 
standing to see nothing clearly ; and enveloped all the great ti-uths 
of reason and religion in mists of doubt. 

Bayle^ I own it did; — hut your comparison is not just. I did not 
^e well, before I used my philosophic eye-water: I only supposed 
I saw well; hut I was in an error, with all the rest of mankind. The 
blindness w^as real, the perceptions were imaginary. I cured my- 
self first of those false imaginations, and then I laudably endeav- 
oured to cure other men. 

Locke. A great cure indeed!— and do not you think tha.t> in r«>- 
tum for the ser\^ice you did them, they ought to erect you a statue? 

JBat/le, Yes ; it is good for human nature to know its own weak- 
ness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength we have not, 
we are always in great danger of hurting ourselves, or at least 
of deserving ridicule and contempt, by vam and idle efforts, 

Locke, I agree with you, that human nature should know its ow» 
^weakness ; but it should also feel its strength, and try to improve 
it This was my employment as a philosopher. I endeavoured 
to discover the real powers of the mind, to see what it could do» 
and what it could not ; to restrain it from efforts beyond its ability; 
but to teach it how to advance as far as the faculties given to it 5y 
nature, with the utmost exertion and most proper culture of 
them, would allow it to go. In the vast ocean ot philosophy, I 
had the line and the plummet always in my hands. Many ot its 
depths I found myself unable to fatliom ; but, by caution in souikI- 
Ing, and the careful observations I made in the course of mv voy-^ 
age, I found out some truths of so much use to mankincf, that 
they acknowledge me to have been their benefactor. 

jbayle. Their ignorance makes them think so. Some other 
philosopher will come hereafter and show those truths to be false- 
hoods. He will pretend to discover other truths of equal imi)or-» 
tance, A later sage will arise, perhaps among men now barbar- 
ous and unlearned, whose sagacious discoveries will discredit the 
opinions of his admired predecessor. In philosophy, as in nature, all 
changes its form, and one thing exists by the destruction of another. 

Locke, Opinions taken up without a patient investigation, de^ 
pending pn terms not accm^ately defined, and principles begged 
without proof, like theories to explain the phienomena of nature^, 
built on suppositions instead of experiments, must peipetually 
Change and aestroy one another. But some opinions there arcj* 
•ven in matters not obvious to the commoii sense of mankin^t 
•which the mind has recerved on such rational grounds of assent^ 
Uial th<jy are as immoveable as the pilkr* of hearen ; ov (to bpeaJI^ 



Chafi.r. DIALOGUES. 89 

philosophically) as the great laws of Nature^ by which, under 
God, the universe is sustained. Can you seriously think, that, 
because the hypothesis of your countn man Descartes, which was 
nothing but aii ingenious, well-imagined ix)mance, has been lately 
exploded, the system of Newton, which is built on experiments 
and geometry, tlie two most certain methods of discovering trutli, 
will ever fail'; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the divin- 
ity of the schoolmen, cannot now be supported^ the doctrines of 
that religion, which I, the declared enemy of all enthusiasm and 
false reasoning, firmly believed and maintained, will ever b(! 
shaken? 

Bayle. If you had asked Descartes, while lie was in the height 
of his vogue,' whether his system would ever be confuted by any 
other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had been by his, what an- 
swer do you suppose he would have returned? 

Locke, Come, come, you yourself know the difference between 
the foundations on wliich the credit of those systems, and that of 
Newton is placed. Your scepticism is more affected than real. 
You found it a shorter way to a great reputation, (the onlv wish 
of yciir heart,) to object, than to defend; to pull down, tnan to 
set up. And your talents were admirable for that kind of work. 
Then your huddling together in a Critical Dictionaiy, a pleasant 
tale, or obscene jest, and a grave argument against the Christian 
religion, a witty confutation of some absurd author, and an artful 
sophism to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly com- 
modious to all our young smarts and smatterers in free- thinking. 
But what mischief have you not done to human societ,y? You have 
endeavoured, and with some degree of success, to shake those 
foundations, on which the whole moral world, and the great fabric 
of social happmess, entirely rest. How could you, as a philoso- 
pher, in the sober hours of reflection, answer for this to your con- 
science, even supposing you had doubts of the truth of a system,, 
which gives to virtue its sweetest hopes, to impenitent vice its 
greatest fears, and to true penitence its best consolations; wliich 
restrains even the least approaches to guilt, and yet makes those 
allowances for the infirmities of our nature, which the Stoic pride 
denied to it, but which its real imperfection, and the goodness of 
its infinitelv benevolent Creator, so evidently require? 

Bayle, The mind is free; and it loves to exert its freedom. 
Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, and a tyranny, 
against which it has a right to rebel. 

Locke, The mind, though free, has a governor within itself, 
which may and ought to limit the exercise of its freedom. That 
governor is reason, 

Baylc, Yes: — but reason, like other governors, has a policy 
more dependent upon uncertain caprice, than upon any fixed laws. 
And if tnat reason, which rules my mind or yours, has happened 
to set up a favourite notion, it not only submits implicitly to it, but 
desires that the same respect should be paid to it by all the rest 
of mankind. Now I hold that any man may lawfully oppose this 
desire in another; and that if he "is wise, he will use his utmost 
endeavours to check it in him self. 

Locke. Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature to this 
you ;u'c now ridiculing? Do we not often take a pleasure in show 

112 



^ THE ENGLISH READER, Part % 

J^g fmr own power, and gi-atifying our own pride, by degrading 
the notions set up by other men, and generally respected ? 

Baxjle, I believe we do; and by this means it often happens, 
that, if one man builds and consecrates a temple to folly, ano^or 
pulls it down. 

Locke, Do you think it beneficial to human society, to have 
all temples pulled down? 

Bayk. I cannot say that I do, 

Locke. Yet I find not in your writings any mark of distinction, 
to show us which you mean to save. 

Bayle^ A true philosopher, like an impartial historian, must be 
of no sect, 

Locke, is there no medium between the blind zeal of a sectary, 
and a total indifference to all religion? 

Bayle, With regard to morality, 1 was not indifferent. 

Locke, Hew could you then be indifferent witK regard to the 
sanctions religion gives to morality? How could you publish what 
tends so directly and apparently to weaken in mankind the belief 
of tho§e sanctions ? was not this sacrificing the great interests of 
vii-tue to the little motives of vanity ? 

Bayle, A man may act indiscreetly, but he cannot do wrong, 
by declarinjj that, wliich, on a full discussion of the question, he 
sincerely thinks to be ti-ue. 

Locke, An enthusiast, who advances doctrines prejudicial to so- 
ciety, or opposes any that ai*e useful to it, has the strength of 
ojDinion, and the lieat of a disturbed imagination, to plead in aJlevia- 
tibn of his fault. But your cool head and sound judgment, can 
have no such excuse, i kno^v very well there are passages in aU 
your worksj and those not few, where you talk like a rigid moralist 
I have also heard that your character was irreproachably good, 
But when, in the most laboured parts of your writings, you sap 
the surest foundations of all moral duties ; what avails it that in 
others, or in the conduct of your life, you appeared to respect 
Ihein? How many, who have stronger passions than you had, and 
fire desirous to get rid of the curb that restrains them, will lav 
iiold of yonr scejDticism, to set themselves loose from all obliga- 
tions of virtue! What a misfortune is it to have ma.de such a use 
of such talents ! It would have been better for you and for man- 
kind, if yo'4 had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologians, or 
the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The riches 
of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed so pervei-sely, 
as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of an ornament and sup* 
j)oi*t, to society. 

Bayle. You are very severe upon me. — But do you count it no 
merit, no service to mankind, to deliver them from the fi-auds and 
ibtt^rs of priestcraft, from the deliriums of fanaticism, and from 
the terrors and follies of superstition? Consider how much mis- 
chief these have done to the world! Even in the last age, what 
massacres, what civil wars, what comoilsions of government, what 
confusion in society, did they produce ! Nay, in that we both lived 
in, though much more enlightened than tlie former, did I not sec 
them occasion a violent persecution in my own country? and can 
y»u blame me for striking at the root of these e\ilsf 

/^ocke. The root of tliese o\\\s, you well know, was false reli^ 



Chafi. 8. PUBLIC SPEECHES. ^1 

gion: but you struck at the tnie. Heaven aiid hell arc not more 
diffei'ent, than the system of faith I defended, ajid that which pro- 
duced the horrors of which you speak, \^^hy would you so falla- 
ciously confound them together in some of your ^vntlngs, that it 
i-equires much more judgment, and a more diligent attention, than 
orainary readers have, to separate them again, and to make the 
proper distinctions? This, mdeed, is the great art of tlie most 
celebrated freethinkers. They recommend themselves to warm 
and ingenuous minds, by lively strokes of wit, and by arguments 
i*eally strong, against superstition, enthusiasm, and priestcraft. 
But, at the same time, they insidiously throw the colours of these 
upon the fair face of tnie religion ; and dress her out in then* 

farb, with a malignant intention to render her odious or despica- 
le, to those who have not penetration enough to discern the im- 
pious fraud. Some of them ma^ have thus deceived themselves, 
as well as others. Yet it is certain, no book that ever was written 
by the most acute of these gentlemen, is so repugnant to priest^ 
craft, to spiritual tyranny, to all absurd superstitions, to all that can 
tend to disturb or mjure society, as that gospel they so much affect 
to despise. 

Bayle, Mankind are so made, that, when they have been over^ 
heated, they cannot be brought to a proper temper again, till they 
have been over-cooled. My scepticism might be necesss.n% to 
abate the fever and phrenzy of false religion. 

Locke. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paralytica! 
state of the mind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a palsy, which 
deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its natural and vital 
powers,) in order to take off a fever, w^hich temperance, and the 
milk of the evangelical doctrines, would probably cure! 

Bayle, I acknov/ledge that those micdicines have a gi'eat power. 
But few doctors apply them untainted with the mixture oi some 
harsher drugs, or so'me unsafe and ridiculous nostrums of their own. 

Locke, What you now say is too true. — God has given us a most 
exceUent physic for the soul, in all its diseases ; but bad and in- 
terested physicians, or ignorant and conceited quacks, administer 
It so ill to the rest of mankind, that much of the benefit of it is 
unhappily lost, lord i.yttelton. 

CHAPTER Vni. 

PUBLIC SPEECHES. 

SECTION I. 

Cicero against Verres. 

\, The time is come. Fathers, when that which has long been 
■wished for, towards allaying the em-y your order has been subject 
to, and removing the imputations against trials, is effectually put in 
your power. An opinion has long prevailed, not only here at home, 
but likewise in foreign countries, both dangerous to you, and per- 
nicious to the state, — ^that, in prosecutions, men of wealth are al- 
ways safe, however clearly qonvicted. 

2. There is now to be brought upcm his trial before you, to the 
confusion^ I hope, of the propagators of this slanderous jmputation, 
wie whose life and actions condemn him in the opinion or jjl m^ 



92 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

partial persons ; but who, according to his own reckoning and de- 
clared dependence upon his riches, is already acquitted; I mean 
Caius Verres. 1 demand justice of you, fathers, upon the robbei 
of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Pam- 
phylia, the invader oj the rights and privileges of Romans, the 
scourge and curse of Sicily. 

3. If that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes desenT, 
your authority, fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the eyes 
of the public: but if his great riches should bias you in his favoui*, 
I shall still gain one point, — to make it apparent to all the world, 
that what was wantmg in this case, was not a criminal nor a prose- 
cutor,^ but justice and adequate punishment. 

4. To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what 
does his qu^storship, the first public employment he held, what 
docs it exhibit, but one continued scene of vilianies? Cneius Carbo, 
plundered of the public money by his own treasurer, a consul 
stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a 
province i-obbed, the civil and religious rights of a people violated. 

5. The employment he held in Asia Minor juid Pamphylia, 
what did it produce but the i-uin of those countries? in which 
houses, cities, and temples, were robbed by him. What was his 
conduct in his praetorship here at home? Let the plundered tem- 
ples, and public works neglected, that he might embezzle the 
money intended for carrying them on, bear witness. How did he- 
discharge the ofSce of a judge? Let those who suffered by his in- 
justice answer. 

6. But his prxtorship in Sicily crowns all his w^orks of wicked- 
ness, and finishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The mischiefs 
done by him in that unhappy countiy, during the three years of 
his iniquitous administration, are such, that many years, under the 
wisest and best of praetors, will not oe sufficient to restore things to 
the condition in which he found them : for it is notorious, that, 
during the time of his tyranny, the Sicilians neither enjoyed the 
protection of their own original laws ; of the regulations made for 
their benefit by the Roman senate, upon their coming under the 
protection of tlie commonwealth ; nor of the natural and unalien- 
able rights of men. 

7. His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years. 
And his decisions have broken all law, all precedent, all Vight. 
The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of impositions^ 
extolled from the industrious poor, are not to be computed. 

8. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been 
treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to 
death with tortures. The most atrocious criminals, for money, 
have been exempted from the deserved punishments; and men 
of the most unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished 
uaheard. 

9. The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the ^ates of 
strong towns, have been opened to pirates and ravagers. 1 he solr- 
diery and sailors, belonging to a province under the protection of 
the commonwealth, have been starved to death; whole ileets, to 
the great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. The an- 
cient monuments of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues 
of heroes and princes, ha\ e been carried ofl'; and tlie tempks 
stripped of their imager;. 



Chap, 8. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 9S 

10. Having, b)r his iniquitous sentences, filled the pj^isons with 
the most hidustvious and deserving of the people, he then prt>- 
ceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the 
gaols : so that the exclamation, " I am a citizen of Rome!" whicli 
has often, in the most distant regions, and among the most bar- 
barous people, been a protection, was of no senice to them; but^ 
on the contrary, brought a speedier and a mere severe punish- 
ment upon them. 

11. I ask now, Verres, what thou hast to a.dvance against this 
charge ? Wilt thou pretend to deny it ? Wilt thou pretend, that 
any tning false, that even any thing aggi-avated, is alleged against 
thee ? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same outrage 
against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we 
had sufficient ground for demanding satisfaction? 

12. What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyran- 
nical and wicked przctor, who dared, at no gi-eater distance than 
Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death 
of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Publius Ga- 
vius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizen- 
ship, fmd declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his 
cx)untn', against the cruel oppressor, v/ho^ had unjustly confined 
liim in'pnson at Syracuse, whence he had just made his escape? 

13. The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark for 
his native country,'is brought before the wicked praetor. With 
eyes darting fury, and a countenance" distorted w^ith ciTielty, he or- 
ders the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be 
brought : accusing him, but without the least shadow of evidence, 
or even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. 

14. It w^as in vain that the unhappy man cried out, "I am a Ro- 
man citizen; I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at 
Panomius, and will attest my innocence." The blood-thirsty 
prxtor, deaf to all he could urge in his own defence, ordered the 
infamous punishment to be inflicted. 

15. Thus, fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly man- 
gled with scourging; whilst the only words he uttered, amidst his 
cruel sufferings, were, **I am a Roman citizen!" With these he 
hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy, But of so little 
service was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus assert- 
ing his citizenship, the order was given for his execution, — ^for his 
execution upon tne cross ! 

16. O liberty! — O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! — 
O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! — once sacred! — now 
trampled upon! — But what then! Is it come to this? Shall an in- 
ferior magistrate, a govern'^r, who holds his whole power of the 
Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, 
acourge, torturc with fire and red hot plates of iron, and at last 
put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen? 

17. Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the 
tears of pitymg spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman com- 
monwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the 
licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in -confidence of 
lu« riches, strikes at the root of libei-ty, and sets mankind at defiance? 

18. I conclude with expressing my hopes, tliat your wisdom and 
justice, fathers, will not, by suttering tbe atroc^w and unexom^ 



94 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. 

pled insolence of Caius Verres Xo escape due punishment, leave 
i-oom to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, 
and the introduction of general anarchy and confusion. 

Cicero's orations. 
SECTION II. 
Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imfilormg their 

protection against Jugurtha. 
Fathers! 

1. It is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on his 
death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, conjunctly 
with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and myself, the children 
of his own body, the administration of the kini^dom of Numidia,. 
directing us to consider the senate and people ot Rome as proprie 
tors of it. He charged us to use our best endeavours to be service 
able to the Roman commonwealth ; assuring us, that your pro- 
tection would prove a defence against all enemies; and woulti be 
instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures, 

2. While my brother and I were thinking cf nothing but how to- 
regulate ourselves according to the directions of our deceased 
father— Jugurtha — the most infamous of marxkindl — ^breaking 
through all ties of gratitude and of common humanity, and tram- 
pling on the authority of the Roman commonwealth, procured the 
murder of my unfortunate brother ; and has driven me from my 
throne and native country, thoti^h he knows I inherit, from my 
grandfather Massinlssa, and my father Micipsa, the friendship and 
alliance of the Romans. 

3. For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to tny distressful cir- 
cumstances, is calamity enough; but my misfortunes are heighten- 
ed by the consideration — that I find myself obliged to solicit your 
assistance, fathers, for the services done you by my ancestors, not 
for any I have been able to render you in my own person, Jugur- 
tha has put it out of my power to desenre am^ thing at your hands ;, 
and has forced me to be burdensome, before 1 could be useful to youv. 

4. And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeserved misen^ — a once 
powerful prince, the descendant of a race cf illustrious rnonarchs,, 
now, without any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and 
reduced to the necessity of begging foreign assistance^ against an 
enemy who has seized my throne and my kingdom — if my unequaT- 
led distresses were all I had to plead — ^it would become the great- 
ness of the Roman commonwealth, to protect the injured, and to 
check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. 

5. But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jugurtha has 
driven me from the veiy dominions, which the senate and people 
of Rome gave to my ancestors ; and, from which, my grandfather, 
and my father, under your umbrage, expelled Sypnax and the 
Carthaginians. Thus, 'fathers, your kindness to our family is de- 
feated ; and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt upon you. 

6. O wretched prince! Oh cruel reverse of fortune! Oh father 
Micipsa! is this the consequence of thy generosity; that he, whom 
thy goodness raised to an equality with thy own children, should 
be the murderer of thy children ? Must, then, the royal house of 
Numidia always be a scene of havoc and blood ? 

7. While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be expect- 
ed, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks; our enemy 



Chafi. 8. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 95 

near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman commonwealth, at a dis- 
tance. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we congratu- 
lated ourselves on the prospect of established peace. But, instead 
of peace, behold the kingdom of Numidia drenched with royal 
blood! and the only surviving son of its late king, flying from an 
adopted murderer, and seekmg that safety in foreigii parts, which 
he cannot command in his own kingdom. 

8. Whither — Oh! whither shall I fly? If I return to the royal 
palace of mj^ ancestors, my father's throne is seized by the murder- 
er of mv brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugurtha 
should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, those hands which are now 
reeking with my brother's ? If I were to fly for refuge, or for as- 
sistance to any other court, from what prince can I hope for pix)- 
tection, if the Roman commonwealth give me up? From my own 
family or friends I have no expectations. 

9. My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reach of vio- 
lence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his unhappy son. 
Were my brother alive, our mutual sympathy would be some alle- 
viation. But he is hurried out of life, in his early youth, L}' the 
very hand which should have been the last to injure any of the 
royal family of Numidia. 

10. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all "whom he suspected 
to be in my interest. Some have been destroyed by the lingering 
torment of the cross. Others have been given a prey to wild 
beasts ; and their anguish made the sport of men more cruel than 
wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up in dun- 
geons, there to drag out a life more intolerable than death itself. 

11. Look down, illustrious senators of Rome! from that height 
of power to which you are raised, on the imexampled distresses 
of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked intruder, become an 
outcast from all mankind. Let not the crafty insinuations of him 
who returns murder for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do 
not listen to the wretch who has butchered tne son and relations 
of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with 
his own sons. 

12. I have been informed, that he labours by his emissaries to 
prevent your determining any thing against him in his absence ; 
pretending that I magnity my distress, and might, for him, have 
staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time comes, 
when the due vengeance from above shall overtake him, he will 
then dissemble as I do. Then he, who now, hardened in wicked- 
ness, triumphs over those whom his violence has laid low, will, in 
his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my 
father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. 

13. Oh murdered, butchered brother! 'Oh dearest to my heart — 
now gone for ever from my sight! — ^but why should I lament his 
death? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of heaven, of 
life, and kingdom, at once, by the very person who ought to have 
been the first to hazard his own life, in defence of kny one of 
Micipsa's family. But, as things are, my brother is not so much 
deprived of these comforts, as delivered from teiTor, from flight, 
fix)m exile, and the endless traiA of miseries which render life to 
me a burden. 

14. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and feutering in his own 



06 THE ENGLISH READER. Part t 

blood. But he lie/s in peace. He feels none of the miseries whiclt 
rend my soul with agony and distraction, while I am set up a spec- 
tacle to all mankind, of the uncertainty of human affairs. So far 
from having it in my power to punish his murderer, I am not mas- 
ter of the means of securing my own life. So far from being in 
a condition to defend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, 
I am o])lieed to apply tor foreign protection for my own person. 

15. Fathers! Senators of Rome! the arbiters of nations! to you 
I fly for refuge from the murdei-ous fury of Jugurtka. — By your 
affection for ^our children; by your love for your country; by 
your ovm virtues ; by the majesty of the Roman commonwealth ; 
W all that is sacred, and all that 'is dear to you — deliver a wretch- 
etl prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury; and save the 
kingdom of Numidia, which is your own property, fi-om being the 
pi-ey of violence, usurpation, and cruelty. sallust. 

SECTION III. 
T/ie Apostle Paul's noble defence before Festus and Agrippa. 

1. Agrippa said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak for thy- 
self. — ^^Fhen Paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for him- 
self. I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer 
for myself this (lay before thee, concerning all the things whereof I 
am accused by the Jews: especially, as I know thee to be expert 
in all customs and questions which are among the Jews. Where- 
fore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. 

2. My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first 
among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews; who knew 
me from the beginning, (if they would testify, J that after the strait- 
est sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and 
am judged for the hope of the promise made by God to our 
fathers ; to which promise, our twelve tribes, contmually serving 
God^ day and night, hope to come: and, for this hope's sake, king 
Agrippa, I am accused by the Jews. 

3. Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that 
God should raise the dead ? I verily thought with myself, that I 
ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Naza- 
retti: and this I did in Jerusalem, Many of the saints I shut up in 
prison, having received authoiity from the chief priests: and when 
they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And I 
often punislied them in every synagogue, and compelled them to 
blaspheme; and being exceedingly mad against tliem, I perse- 
cuted them even unto strange cities. 

4. But as I went to Damascus, with authority and commission 
from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king! I 'saw in the way a 
light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round 
about me, and them who journeyed with me. And when we were 
all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking to me and sayine, 
in the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me ? It 
is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I said, who art 
thou. Lord ? And he replied, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. 

5. But rise, and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared to thee 
for this puipose, to make thee a minister, and a witness both of 
these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in which I 
will appear to tl^ee ; dclivci'ing tliec from the ])cople, and from 
the Gentiles, to >vhom 1 now send thcc, to open Iheir eyes, and to 



Cftafi. S. PUBLIC SPEECtiES. §f 

turn them frbtti darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to 
God; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance 
among them who are sanctified by faith that is in me, 

6. Whereupon, O king A^rippa! I was not disobedient to the 
heavenly vision ; but showed htst to them of Damascus, and at Je- 
rusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gfcti- 
tiles, that they should repent, and turn to God, and do works meet 
for repentance. For these causes, the Jews caught me in the tem- 
ple ; and went about to kill me. Having, however, obtained help 
fi-om Godj I continue to this day witnessing both to small and gi-eat, 
saying no other things than those which the prophets and Mosesi 
declared should come ; that Christ should suffer ; that he would 
be the first who should rise from the dead ; and that he would 
shdw light to the people, and to the Gentiles. 

7. And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a loud 
voice^ "Paul, thou ait beside thyself ; much learning hath made 
thee madi" But he replied, I am not mad, most noble festus ; 
but speak the words of truth and soberness. For the king know- 
eth triese things, before whom I also speak freely, I am persuaded 
that none of these things are hidden from him: for this thing was 
hot done in a comer. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? 
1 know that thou behevest. Then Agi'ippa said to Paul, ** Al- 
inost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.^' And Paul replied, 
*' I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this 
day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these 
bonds."* ACTS xxvi. 

SECTION IV. 
Lord Mansfield's sfieech in the House of Peers, 1770, on the 

bill for Jir eventing the delays of justice, oy claiming the Frtvi^ 

lege of Parliament, 
My lords, 

1, When I consider the importance of this bill to your lord* 
shipsj I am not surprised it has taken up so much of your con 
sideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common magnitude ; it is no 
less than to take away fix)m two-thirds of the legislative body of 
this great kingdom, certain privileges and immunities of which 
tliey have been long possessed. Perhaps there is no situation the 
human niind can be placed iii, that is so difficult and so trying, as 
when it is made a judge in its own cause. 

2, There is something implanted in the breast of man so attach- 
ed to self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a, 
situation^ either to discuss with impartialityj or decide with justice^ 
has ever been held the summit of all human virtue* The bill now 
in question puts your lordships in this very predicament ; and I 
have no douot the wisdom of your decision will convince the world, 
that where self-interest and justice are in opposite scales, the latter 
wiii ever preponderate with your lordships. 

3, Privileges have been granted to legislators in aU ages, and In 

* How happy was this great Apostle, even in the most perilous circum- 
stances ! Though under bonds and oppression, his mind was free^ and raised 
above every fear of man. With what dignity and composure does he de- 
fend himself, and tlie noble cause he had espoused; whilst he displays the 
most compassionate and generous feelings, for Uiosc who were Bttangers to 
th^ sublime religion by which he was animated ! 

I 



98 THE ENGLISH READER. Fart I, 

all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ; and^, indeed, it 
»s peculiarly essential to the constitution of this countn^, that the 
members of both hoi^ses should be free in their persons, in cases 
of civil suits: for there may come a time when the safety and wel- 
fare of this whole empire, may depend upon their attendance m 
parliament. I am far from advising any measure that would in 
future endanger the state: but the bill before your lordships has, I 
am confident, no such tendency ; for it expressly secures the per* 
sons of members of either house in all civil suits. 

4. This being the case, I confess, when I see many noble lords, 
for whose judgment I have a very great respect, standing up to 
oppose a bill which is calculated merely to facilitate the recovery 
ot just and legal debts, I am astonished and amazed. They, \ 
doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles: I would not wish 
to insinuate, that private interest had the least weight in their de- 
termination. 

5. The bill has been frequently proposed, ajid as frequently has 
miscarried: but it was always lost m the lower house. Little did I 
think, when it had passed the commons^ that it possibly could liave 
met with such opposition here. Shall it be said, that you, my lords, 
the grand council of the nation, the highest judicial and legislative 
body of the realm, endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very 
laws which you enforce on your fellow-subjects ? Forbid it justice? 
■ — I am sure, wex'e the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with 
but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the courts of jus- 
tice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, they could 
not, oppose this bill. 

6. I have waited with patience to hear what arguments might 
be urged against this bill ; but I have vv^aited in vain: the truth is, 
there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice and 
expediency ot the bill are such as render it self-evident. It is a 
proposition of that nature, which can neither be weakened by ar- 
gument, nor entangled with scphistiy. Much, indeed, has been 
said by some noble lords, on the wdsdom of our ancestors, and how 
differently they thought from us. They not only decreed, that 
privilege should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the 
sitting of parliament, but likewise granted protection to the very 
servants of members. I shall say nothing on the wisdom of our 
ancestors; it might perhaps appear mvidious: that is not necessa- 
ry in the present case. 

7. I shall only say, that the noble lords who flatter themselves 
with the weight of that reflection, should remember, that as cir- 
cumstances alter, things themselves should alter. Formerly, it 
was aot so fashionable either for masters or servants to run in aebt, 
as it is at prescat Formerly, we were not that great commercial 
nation we are at present ; nor formerly were merchants and manu- 
facturers members of parliament as at present. The case is now 
very different: both merchants and manufacturers are, with great 
propriety, elected members of the loAver house. 

8. Commerce having thus got into the legislative body of the 
kingdom, privilege must be done away. We all know, that the 
very soul and esi^rnce of triidc are regular ])ayments; and sad 
cx])crience teaclicb u^-, \w:X iliere cd'c men, wlio will not make 
their regular pnymcnl^ v/ithcut the compulsive power of the laws.. 



Chafi. >8, PUBLIC SPEECHES. ^ 

The law tlien ought to be equally open to all. Any exemption to 
paiticuLar men, or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and com- 
iTiercial country, a solecism of the grossest nature. 

9. But I will not trouble your lordships with arguments for 
that, which is suffictently evident without any. I shall only say a 
few words to soiTie noble" lords, who foresee much inconvenience, 
from the persons of their servants being: liable to be arrested. 
One noble lord observes. That the coachman of a peer may be 
arrested, while he is driving his master to the House, and that, 
consequently, he will not ])e able to attend his duty in parliament. 
If til is were actually to liappen^ there are so many methods by 
which the member might still get to the House, that I can hardly 
thmk the noble lord is serious in his objection. 

10. Another noble peer said, That, by this bill, one might lose his 
most valual)lc and honest servants. This I hold to be a contradic» 
tion in terms: for. he can neither be a, valuable servant, nor an 
honest man, who gets into debt which he is neither able nor will- 
ing to pay, till compelled by the law. If my servant, by unfore- 
seen accidents, has got into debt, and I still wish to retam him, I 
certainly would pay the dem.and* But upon no principle of liberal 
legislation whatever, can my ser\^ant have a title to set his credi- 
tors at defiance, while, for forty shillings only, the honest tradesman 
may be torn from his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is mon- 
strous injustice^. I flatter myself, however, the determination of 
this day will entirely put an end to all these partial proceedmes for 
the future, by passing into a law the bill now under your lordsliipa' 
consideration, 

11. I come now to speak, upon what, indeed, I would have glad- 
ly avoided, had I not been ])articularly pointed at, for the part I 
Have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble lord on my 
ieft hand, that I likewise am running the race of popularity. IF 
the noble lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by 
after- ages on good and virtuous actions^ I have long been sti-uggling 
in that race: tq> what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine. 

12. But if the nobler lord means that mushroom popularity, 
which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he is mucIV 
mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble lord to point out a single 
action of my life, in which the popularity of the times ever had 
the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God I liave 
a more permanent and steady rule for my conduct,-— -the dictates of 
my own breast. 

13. Those who have forgone that pleasing adviser, and giv^n up 
their mind to be the slave of every popular impulse, I smc^rely 
pity : I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake 
die shouts 'of a mol), for the trumpet of fame. Experience might 
inform them, that many, who have been saluted with the huzzas 
of a crowd one day, have received their execrations the next ; and 
many, who by the popularity of their times, have been held up as 
spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's 
page, when tiiith has triumphed over delusion, the assassins of 
liljerty. 

14."\Vhy then the noble lord can think I am ambitious of pre- 
sent popularity, that echo of folly, and shadow oi' i-enown,! am at 
a loss to determine. Besides, 1 do not know that the bill row 



100 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

before your lordshifd will be popular: it depends much upcm the 
caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compel people to 
pay their debts ; and, in that case, the present must be a very un^ 
popular bill, 

15, It may not be popular either to take away any of the privi- 
leges of parliament; for I very well remember, and many ot your 
loixiships may remember, that, not long ago, the popular cry was 
for the extension of privilege ; and so far did they carry it at that 
time, that it was said, the privilege protected members even in 
criminal actions ; nay, such was the power of popular, prejudices 
over weak minds, that the very decisions of some ot the courts were 
tinctured with that doctrine. It was undoubtedly an abominable 
(doctrine, I thought so then, and I think so still; but, nevertheless, 
it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those who 
&re called the friends of liberty ; how deservedly, time will show. 

16, True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is 
equally administered to all ; to the king and to the beggar. Where 
is the justice then, or where is the law that protects a member of 
parliament, more than any other man, from the punishment due to 
fiis crimes ? The laws ot this countiy allow of no place, nor any 
employment, to be a sanctuaiy for crimes ; and where I nave the 
honour to sit as judge, neither royal favour, nor popular applause, 
shall protect the guilty. 

17, I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much 
of your lordships' time; and I am sorry a bill, fraught with so 
many good consequences, has not met with an abler advocate: but 
I doubt not your lordships' determination will convince the world, 
that a bill, calculated to contribute so much to the equal distribu- 
tion of justice as the present, recjuires with your lordsnips but vei-y 
little support. 

^^ SECTION V. 

An address to young persons, 

1. I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of be- 
ginning early to give serious attention to your conduct. As soon as 
you are capable of reflection, you must perceive that there is a 
right and a wrong in human actions. You see, that those- who are 
bom with the same advantages of fortune, are not all equally pros- 
perous in the course of life. While some of them, by wise and 
steady conduct, attain distinction in the world, and pass their days 
with comfort and honour ; others, of the same rank, by mean and 
vicious behaviour, forfeit the advantages of their birth ; involve 
themselves in much misery ; and end m being a disgrace to their 
friends, and a burden on society. 

2. Early, then, may you learn, that it is not on the external con 
^tion in which you find yourselves placed, but on the part which 
you are to act, that your welfare or unhappiness, your honour or 
infamy, depends. Now, when beginning to act that part, what 
can be of greater moment, than to regulate your plan of conduct 
with the most serious attention, before you have yet committed 
Uny fatal or irretrievable errors ? 

3. If instead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpose, 
5rou deliver yourselves up, at so critical a time, to sloth and plea- 
sures ; if you refuse to listen to any counsellor but humour, or to 
^tterd to any pursuit except that of^amusement ; if you allow your 



C^. 8. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 101 

selves to float loose eukI careless on the tide of life, ready tn ^ecei^'e 
any dii^ection which the cuiTent of fashion may chance to giv* 
you ; what can you expect to follow from such beginnings ^ 

4. While so many around you are undergoing the sad ccng© 
quences of a like indiscretion, tor what reason shall not those oav. 
sequences extend to you ? Shall you attain success without t^at 
pi-eparation, and escape dangers witliout that precaution, which 
are i-equired of othei^ ? Shall happiness grow up to you, of its 
oNvn accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the rest of man- 
kind, it is the fi-uit of long cultivation, and the acquis:ition of labour 
and care ? 

5. Deceive not yourselves with those aiTogant hopes. Whatever 
be your rank. Providence will not, for your sake, reverse its estab- 
lished order. The Author of your being hath enjoined you to 
** take heed to your ways ; to ponder the paths of your feet ; to 
remember your Creator in the days of your youth, " 

6. He hath decreed, that they only «*who seek after wisdom, 
shall find it ; that fools shall be afflicted, because of their trans- 
gressions ; and that whoever refuseth instruction, shall destroy his 
own soul." By listening to these admonitions, and tempering ihe 
vivacit}^ of youth with a proper mixture of serious thought, you 
may ensure cheerfulness for the rest of life; but by delivei^ing 
yourselves up at present to giddiness and levity, you lay the foun- 
dation of lasting heavmess of heart. 

7. When you look forward to those plans of life, which either 
your circumstances have suggested, or your friends have pro- 
posed, yot will not hesitate to acknowledge, that in order to pur- 
sue them with advantage, some previous discipline is requisite. B« 
assured, that whatever is to be your profession, no education is 
moi-e necessarv to your success, than the acquirement of virtuous 
dispositions an(i habits. This is the universal preparatioa for every 
character, and every station in life. 

8. Bad as the w^oiid is, i-espect is always paid to virtue. In the 
usual coui-se of human affairs, it will be found, that a plain under- 
standing, joined with acknowledged worth, contributes more to 
prosperity, than the brightest parts without probity or honour. 
Whether science, or business, or public life, be your aim, virtue 
still enters, for a principal share, mto all those great departments 
of society. It is connected with eminence, in every liberal art ; 
with reputation in every branch of fair and useful business ; with 
distinction in every public station. 

9. The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which 
it adds to character ; the generous sentiments which it breathes ; 
the undaunted spirit which it inspires ; the ardour of diligence 
which it quickens ; the freedom which it procures from penucious 
and dishonourable avocations ; are the foundations of all that is 
highly honourable, or greatly successful among men. 

10.' WTiatever ornamental or engaging endowTnents you now 
possess, virtue is a necessaiy requisite, in order to their shining 
with proper Kistre. Feeble are the attractions of the fairest form, 
if it be suspected that nothing within corresponds to the pleasing 
appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit, when it is 
supposed to be the vehicle of malice. 

11. By whatever means you may at first attract the attention, 

12 



i02 THE ENGLISH READER. Part % 

you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only by 
amiable dispositions, and the accomplishments of the mind. These 
are the qualities whose influence will last, when the lustre of all 
that once sparkled and dazzled has passed away. 

12. Let not then the season of youth be barren of improve- 
ments, so essential to your future felicity and honour. Now is the 
seed-time of life; and according to "what you sow, you shall 
reap.'* Your character is now, under Divine assistance, of your 
own forming ; your fate is, in some measure, put into your own 
hands. 

13. Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits have not estab- 
lished their dominion. Prejudices have not pre-occupied your un- 
derstanding. The world has not had time to contract and debase 
your affections. All your powers are more vigorous, disembar- 
rassed, and free, than they will be at any future period, 

14. Whatever impulse you now give to your desires and pas- 
sions, the direction is likely to continue. It will form the chan- 
nel in which your life is to run ; nay, it may determine its ever- 
lasting issue. Consider then the employment of this important 
period, as the highest trust which shall ever be committed to 
you ; as in a great measure, decisive of your happiness, in time, 
^d in eternity. 

15. As in the succession of the seasons, each, by the- invariable 
laws of nature, affects the productions of what is" next in course ; 
so, in human life, every period of our age, according as it is well 
or ill spent, influences the happiness of that which is to follow. 
Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished and flour- 
ishing manhood ; and such manhood passes of itself, without un- 
easiness, into respectable and tranquil old age. 

16. But when nature is turned out of its regular course, disor- 
der takes place in the moral, just as in the vegetable world. If 
the spring put forth no blossoms, in summer there will be no 
beauty, and m autumn, no fi-uit; so, if youth be trifled away without 
improvement, manhood will probably be contemptible, and old 
age miserable. If the beginnmes of life have been ** vanity," its 
latter end can scarcely be any other than "vexation of spirit." 

17. I shall finish this address, with calling your attention to that 
dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which, amidst all your en- 
deavours after improvement, you ought continually to preserve. It 
is too common with the young, even when they resolve to tread 
the path of virtue and honour, to set out with presumptuous confi- 
dence in themselves. 

18. Trusting to their own abilities for carrying them successfully 
through life, they are careless of applying to God, or of deriving 
any assistance from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy disci- 
pline of religion. Alas! how little do they know the dangers 
which await them ? Neither human wisdom, nor human virtue, 
unsupported by religion, is equal to the trying situations which 
often occur in life. 

19. By the shock of temptation, how frequently have the most 
virtuous intentions been overthrown ? Under the pressure «f disas- 
ter, how often has the greatest constancy sunk? ** Every good, and 
every perfect gift, is from above. " Wisdom and virtue, as well as 
^•riches and honour, come from God." Destitute of his favour. 



Chafi. 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 103 

yoii are in no better situation, with all your boasted abilities, than 
orphans left to wander in a trackless desert, without any guide to 
conduct them, or any shelter to cover them from the gathering 
storm. 

20. Correct, then, this ill-founded aiTC^ance. Expect not, that 
your happiness can be independent of Him who made you. By 
taith and rcpentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. By 
piety and prayer, seek the protection of the God of heaven. 

21. I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great prince 
delivered his dying charge to his son: words, which every young 
person ought to consider as addressed to himself, and to engi'ave 
deeply on his heart: "Solomon, my son, know thou the God of 
thy fathers ; and serv^e him with a perfect heart, and with a will- 
ing mind. For the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth 
all the imaginations of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will 
be found of thee ; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee olF 
forever." blair. 



CHAPTER IX. 

PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Earthquake at Calabriay in the year 1638. 

1. AN account of this dreadful earthquake, is given by the cele- 
brated father Kircher. It happened whilst he was on his journey 
to visit Mount j^tna, and the rest of the wonders that lie towards 
the South of Italy. Kircher is considered, by scholars, as one of 
the greatest prodigies of learning. "Having hired a boat, in 
company with four more, (two friars of the order of St. Francis, 
and two seculars,) we launched from the harbour of Messina, 
in Sicily ; and arnved, the same day, at the promontory of Pelo- 
rus» Our destination was for the city of Euphxmia, in Calabria : 
where we had some business to transact ; and where we designed 
to tany for some time. 

2. "However, Pix)vidence seemed* willing to cross our design; 
for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, on account 
of the weather ; and though we often put out to sea, yet we were 
as often driven back. At length, wearied with the delay, we re- 
solved to prosecute our voyage; and, although the sea seemed 
more than usually agitated, we ventured forward. 

3. "The gulf of Charybdis, which we approached, seemed 
whirled round in such a manner, as to form a vast hollow, verging 
to apoint in the centre. Proceeding onward, and turning my eyes 
to j^tna, I saw it cast forth large volumes of smoke, of mountain- 
ous sizes, which entirely covered the island, and blotted out the 
very shores from my view. This, together v/ith the dreadful 
noise, and the sulphurous stench which was strpngly perceived, 
filled me with apprehensions, that some more dreaoful calamity 
was inipending. 

4. "The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appearance: 
they who have seen a lake in a violent shower of rain, covered all 
over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its agitations. My 
surprise was still increased, by tlie calmness and serenity of the 



E 



104 THE ENGLISH READER. Pari y 

weather ; nrA a breeze, not a cloud, which might be supposed to 
|>ut all nature thus into motion. I thereftyre warned my compan^ 
lonSj^tnat an eartnquake was approaching ; and, after some time, 
making for the shore with all possible diligence, we landed at Tro- 
pxa, happy and thankful for having escaped the threatening d'asi- 
gers of the sea. 

5. " But our triumphs at land were of short duration; for we had 
scarcely arrived at the Jesuits' College, in that city, vv^hen our ears 
were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling that of an infinite 
number of chariots, driven fiercely forward ; the wheels rattling, 
and the thongs cracking. Soon alter this, a most dreadful earth- 
quake ensued ; so that the whole tract upon which we stood seem- 
ed to vibrate, as if we were in the scale of a balance that continued 
wavering. This motion, however, soon grew more violent; and 
being no longer able to keep my legs, I was thrown prostrate 
upon the ground. In the mean time, the universal ruin ix)und me 
redoubled my amazement. 

6. *' The crash of falling houses, the tottering of towers, and tlie 
groans of the dying, all contributed to raise my terror and despair. 
On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of iniin ; and dan- 

;er threatening wherever I should fly. I recommended myself to 
od, as my last great refuge. 

7. " At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happiness! 
Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and as 
empty as the bubbles of the deep! Just standing on the threshold 
of eternity, nothing but God was my pleasure ; and the nearer I 
approached, I only loved him the more. 

8. " After some time, however, finding that I remained unhurt, 
amidst the general concussion, I resolved to venture for safety ; 
and running as fast as I could, I reached the shore, but almost 
terrified out of my reason. I did not search long here, till I found 
the boat in which I had landed ; and my companions also, whose 
terrors were even greater than mine. Our meeting was not of 
that kind, where every one is desirous of telling his own happy 
escape : it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of impending 
terrors. 

9. " Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voyage 
along the coast ; and the next day came to Rochetta, \vhere we 
landed, although the earth still continued in violent agitations. But 
we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we were once more 
obliged to return to the boat ; and, in about half an hour, we saw 
the greater part of the town, and the inn at which we had put up, 
dashed to the ground, and burymg the inhabitants beneath the 
I'uins. 

10. *' In this manner, proceeding onward in our little vessel, find- 
ing no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness of our boat, hav- 
ing but a very dangerous continuance at sea, we at length landed 
at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tropxa and Euphsemia, 
the city to which, as I said before, we were bound. Here, wherever 
I turned my eyes, nothing but scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; 
towns and castles levelled to the gi^ound ; Strombalo, though at 
sixty miles distance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, 
and with a noise which I could distinctly hear, 

11. ** But my attention was quickly turned from more remote. 



Chafi. a PROMISCUOUS PIECEa 105 

to contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an approaching 
earthquake, which we by this time were grown acquainted with, 
alarmed us for the consequences; it eveiy moment seemed to 
gi'ow louder, and to approach nearer. The place on which wc 
stood now began to shake most dreadfully ; so that being unable 
to stand, my companioas and I caught hold of whatever shrub 
grew next to us, and supported ourselves in that manner. 

12. " After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, we again 
stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphscmia, which lay 
within sight. In the mean time, while we were preparing for this 
pmpose, I turned my eyes towards the city, but could see only a 
frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. This the 
more surarised us, as the weather was so very serene. 

13. "We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away: 
then turning to look for the city, it was totally sunk. Wonderful'to 
tell ! nothing but a dismal and putrid lake was seen where it 
stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its 
sad catastrophe, but could sec no person. All was become a mel- 
ancholy solitude ; a scene of hideous desolation. 

14. " Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some human 
being that could give us a little information, Ave at length saw a 
hoy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupilied with terror. Of 
him, therefore, we inquired concerning the fate of the city; but he 
could not be prevailed on to give us an answer. 

15. "We entreated him, with every expression of tenderness 
and pit)^ to tell us ; but his senses were quite wrapt up in the con- 
templation of the danger he had escaped. We offered him some 
victuals, but he seemed to loath the sight. We still persisted in 
our offices of kindness ; but he only pointed to the place of the 
city, like one out of his senses; and then ininning up into the 
woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city of 
Euphxmia. 

16. ** As we continued our melancholy course along the shore, 
the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles, presented 
nothing but the remains of cities ; and men scattered, without a 
habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length 
ended our distressful voyage by arriving at Naples, after havmg 
escaped a thousand dangers'both at sea and land," goldsmith, 

SECTION II. 
Letter from Pliny to Geminius, 

1. Do we not sometimes observe a soit of people, who, though 
they are themselves under the abject dominion of every vice, 
show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors of others ; 
and are most severe upon those whom they most resemble ? yet, 
surely a lenity of disposition, even in persons who have the least 
occaaon for clemency themselves, is of all virtues the most be- 
coming. 

2. The highest of all characters, in my estimation, is his, who is 
as ready to paixion the errors of manliind, as if he were every 
day guilty of some himself; and, at the same time, as cautious of 
committing a fault, as if he never forgave one. It is a iTile then 
which we should, upon all occasions, both private and public, most 
religKxisly observe ; " to be inexorable to our own failings, whil«^ 



106 THE ENGLISH READER. Part S, 

we treat those of the rest of the world with tenderness, not ex- 
cepting even such as forgive none but tliemselv es. " 

3. I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occasion 
to these reflections. Know then that a certain person lately — but 
of that when we meet— though, upon second thoughts, not even 
then ; lest, whilst I condemn arid expose his conduct, 1 shall act 
counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. Whoever there- 
fore, and whatever he is, shall remain in silence: for though there 
may be some use, ]>erhaps, in setting a mark upon the man, for 
the sake of example, there will be more, however, in sparing him, 
for the sake of humanity. Farewell. melmoth's pliny. 

SECTION III. 

iMter from Pliny to Marcellinus, on the death of an amiable 

young woman. 

1. I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of son^ow : the 
youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus is dead ! Never surely 
was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young person ; or 
one who better deser\ed to have enjoyed a long, 1 had almost said, 
an immortal life 1 She had ail the wisdom of age, and discretion 
of a matron, joined with youthful sweetness and virgin modesty. 

2. With what an engaging- fondness did she behave to her father! 
How kindly and respectfully receive his friends ! How affection- 
ately treat all those who, in their respective offices, had the care 
and education of her ! 

3. She emploved much of her time in reading, in which she dis- 
covered great strength of judgment ; she indulged herself in few 
diversions, and those with much caution. With what forbearance, 
with what patience, with v/hat courage, did she endure her last 
illness! She comphed with all the directions of her physicians; 
she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, when all her 
strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the single 
vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last mo- 
ments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of ap- 
3)roaching death ; and it is a rellection which makes the loss of 
her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe! and 
more severe by the particular conjuncture in which it happened! 

4. She was contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wedding day 
was fixed, and we were all invited. — How sad a change from the 
liighest jor, to the deepest sorrow! How shall I express the 
wound that pierced my heart, when I heard Fundanus himself, 
(as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate its afflic- 
tion,) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes, 
and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spices 
for her funeral ! 

5. He is a man of great learning and good sense, who has applied 
liimself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated* 
studies ; but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received 
from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects ; and 
every other virtue (^ his heart gi\cs place to all a parent's tender- 
ness. We shall excuse, Ave shVdl ca en approve his sorrow, when 
we consider what he has lof,t. He has lost a daughter who re- 
sembled him in his manners, as well as his person; and exactly 
copied out all her f:ithcr. 



<:kali, 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 107 

6. If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, 
upon tl>e subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to 
use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to car- 
vy a sort of reproof with them; but those of kind and sympathizing 
humanity. 

7. Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason : 
for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, 
but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its cure ; 
so a mind, under the first impressions of a misfortune, shuns and 
rejects all arguments of consolation ; but at length, if applied with 
tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces in them. Farewell. 

MELMOTH's PLINY. 

SECTION IV. 

On discretion. 

1. I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, 
we should see but little difference between that of a wise man, and 
that of a fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extrava- 
gances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. 
The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull 
his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some, and communi- 
cating others ; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out 
hi words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in pri- 
vate conversation between intim.ate friends. On such occasions, the 
wisest men very often talk like the weakest ; for indeed talking 
with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud, 

2. Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, delivered 
by some ancient writers. That a man should live with his enemy 
in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend ; 
and with his friend, in such a manner, that, if he became his ene- 
my, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of 
this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed 
very reasonable, as well as veiy prudential ; but the latter part of 
it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, savours more 
of cunning than of discretion : and would cut a man off* from the 
greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation 
with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into 
an enemy, the w^orld is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness 
of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who con- 
fided in him, 

3. Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the 
circumstances of action ; and is like an under-agent of Providence, 
to guide and direct us in the ordinarj^ concerns of life. There are 
many more shining qualities in the mind of m.an, but there is none 
so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all 
the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and 
places ; and turns them to the S-dvantage of the person w^ho is 
}X)ssessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit im- 
pertinence ; virtue itself looks like weakness ; the best parts only 
qualify a man to be more sprightly in en-ors, and active to his own 
prejudice. 

4. Discretion does not only make a man the master of his o^vn 
parts, but of other r>,, - ^. The discreet man finds out the talents 
of those he convn and knows how to apply them to pio- 
.pcr uses. A xoriL . ^ e look ijito particular communities and 



108 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

divisions of men, we may observe, that it is the discreet man, not 
the witty, nor the learned, nor the bi^ave, who guides the con- 
versation, and gives measures to society. A man with great tal- 
ents, but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fabte, strong 
and blind ; endued with an irresistible force, which, for want o? 
sight, is of no use to him. 

5. Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he ^ants 
discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; ori 
the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a 
common share of others, he may do what he pleases hi his parti- 
cular station of life. 

6. At the same time that I think discretion the most liseful talent 
a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accom- 
plishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points^ 
out the noblest ends to us ; and pursues the most proper and lautda- 
ble methods of attaining them : cunning has only private selfish 
aims ; and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. 

7. Discretion has large and extended views ; and, like a well- 
formed eye, commands a whole horizon : cunning is a kind of 
short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are 
near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Dis- 
cretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the 
person who possesses it : cunning, when it is once detected, loses 
its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those 
events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man; 

8. Discretion is the perfection of reason ; and a guide to us in all 
the duties of life : cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out 
after our immediate interest and welfai-e. Discretion is only found 
in men of strong sense and good understandings : cunning is often 
to be met with in brutes themselves ; and in persons who are but 
the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic 
of discretion ; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same man- 
ner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity, for wisdom^ 

9. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, make^ 
him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his con- 
dition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present.^ He 
knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in 
another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at scjf 
great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to' 
him because they are remote. He considers, that those pleasures 
and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every 
moment ; and will be present with him in their full weidit anS 
measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he reels at 
this very instant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to hini- 
self that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ulti- 
mate design of his being. 

10. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action ; and 
considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate effects 
of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage 
which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with his 
views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortal- 
ity; his schemes are large and glorious; and his conduct suitable 
to one who knows Ills true interest^ and how to pursue it by proper 
methods, addiscn*^ 



Chatu a PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 109 

SECTION V. 

On the government of our thoughts, 

1. A MULTITUDE of cascs occur, in which we are no less ac- 
countable for what we think, than for what wx do. As^ first, when 
the introduction of any train of thought depends u}, ' n oui-selves, 
and is our voluntary act, hj^ turning our attention towards such ob- 
jects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, 
as we know must give a peculiar determination to our thoughts. 
Next, when thoughts, by whatever accident they may have been 
originally suggested, are indulged with deliberation and compla- 
cency. 

2. Though the mind has been ]3assive in their reception, and, 
therefore, free from blame ; yet, if it be active in their continuance, 
the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at fii-st, like 
unbidden guests; but if when entered, they are made welcome, 
and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been 
invited from the beginning. 

3. If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts either volun- 
tarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less so, in the 
last place, for those which find admittance into our hearts from 
supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing 
our imagination to rove with entire license, 'Mike the eyes of the 
fool, towards the end of the earth." 

4. Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and vanity. 
They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take 
possession. The consequences m.ust all be charged to our ac- 
count ; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence 
it appears, that the great object at which we. are to aim in gov- 
erning our thoughts, is, to take the most effectual measures for 
preventing the introduction of such as are sinful ; and for hasten- 
mg their expulsion, if they shall have introduced themselves with- 
out consent of the will. 

5. But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how far 
we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell, ** how 
oft he hath offended ?" In no article of rehgion or morals are men 
more culpably remiss, than m the unrestrained indulgence they 
give to fancy; and that too, for the most part, witnout remorse* 
Since the time that reason began to exert her powers, thought, 
during our waking hours, has been active in every breasc, without 
a moment's suspension or pause. 

6. The cmTent of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels 
ofthe spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual motion. Let 
me ask, what has been the fniit of this incessant activity, with the 
greater part of mankind ? Of the innumerable hours that have 
been employed in thought, how few are marked with any perma- 
nent or useful effect ? Hoy/ many have either passed away in idle 
dreams ; or have been abandoned to anxious discontented musings, 
to unsocial and malignant passions, or to irregular and criminal de- 
sires ? 

7. Had I power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity which 
the hearts of too many conceal ; could I draw out and read to 
them a list of all the nnaginations they have devised, and all the 
passions they have indulged in secret'; wliat a picture of mei\ 
shcnild I nrescnt to thi^mseli^f:-. 1 Wh-it nrime.s would ti^ 



IK) THE ENGLISH READER. Part h 

pear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which to their most intimate 
companions they durst not reveal ! 

8. Even when men imagine their thoughts to be innocently em« 
ployed, they too commonl^^ suffer them to run out into extravagant 
imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they would wish to 
attain, or choose to be, if they could frame the course of things ac- 
cording to their desire. Though such employments of fancy come 
Bot under the same description with those which are plainly crimi- 
nal, yet wholly unblamable they seldom are. Besides the waste 
of time which they occasion, and the misapplication which they 
indicate of those intellectual j)owers that were given to us for mucn 
nobler purposes, such romantic speculations lead us always into the 
neighbourhood of forbidden regions. 

9. They place us on dangerous ground. They are, for the most 
part, connected with some one bad passion ; and they always nour- 
ish a giddy and frivolous turn of thought. They unfit the mind for 
applymg with vigour to rational pursuits, or for acquiescing in sober 
plans of conduct. From that ideal world in which it allows itself to 
dwell, it returns to the commerce of men, unbent and relaxed, sick- 
ly suid tainted, averse to discharging the duties, and sometimes dis- 
qualified even for rehshing the pleasures of ordinary life, blair. 

SECTION VI. 

On the evils which flow from unrestrained fiassions, 

1. When man revolted from his Maker, his passions rebelled 
against himself; and, from being originally the ministers of reason, 
have become the tyrants of the soul. Hence, in treating of this sub- 
ject, two things may be assumed as principles : first, that through 
the present weakness of the understanding, our passions are often 
directed towards improper objects ; and next, that even when their 
direction is just, and their objects are innocent, they perpetuaUy 
tend to run into excess ; they always hurry us towards their grati- 
fication, with a blind and dangerous impetuosity. On these two 
points then turns the whole government of our passions i first, t^ 
ascertain the proper objects of their pursuit ; and next,^ to restrain 
them in that pursuit, when they would carry us beyond the bounds 
of reason. 

2. If there is any passion which intrudes itself unseasonably into 
©ur mind, which darkens and troubles our judgment, or habitually 
discomposes our temper ; which unfits us for properly discharging 
the duties, or disqualifies us for cheerfully enjoymg the comforts of 
life, we may certainly conclude it to have gamed a dangerous as- 
cendant. The great object which we ought to propose to ourselves 
is, to acquire a firm and steadfast mind, which the infatuation of 
passion shall not seduce, nor its violence shake; which, restii^ 
on fixed principles, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, re 
main free, and master of itself; able to listen calmly to the voice 
of conscience, and prepared to obey its dictates withoiit hesitation, 

3. To obtain, if possible, such command of passion, is one of the 
highest attainments of the rational nature. Arguments to show its 
importance crowd upon us from every quarter. If there be any 
fertile sourcte of mischief to human life, it is, beyond doubt, the mis- 
rule of passion. It is this which poisons the enjoyment of individ- 
uals, overturns the order of society, and strews tlie path of life 
■^ith so many miseries, as to render it indeed the vale of tears. 



Qbafi. 0. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. lU 

4. All those great scenes of public calamity, which we behold 
with astonishment and horror, have originated from the source of 
violent passions. These have overspread the earth with bk>odshed. 
These have pointed the assassin's dagger, and filled the poisoned 
bowl. These, in every age, have furnished too copious materials 
for the orator's pathetic declamation, and for the poet^s tmgicai 
song. When from public life we descend to private conduct, 
though passion operates not there in so wide and destructive a 
sphere, we shall find its influence to be no less baneful. 

5, I need not mention the black and fierce passions, such as envy, 
jealousy, and revenge, whose effects are obviously noxious, and 
whose agitations are immediate misery. But take any of the licen- 
tious and sensual kind. Suppose it to have unlimited, scope ; trace 
It throughout its course ; and we shall find that gradually,^ as it 
rises, it taints the soundness, and troubles the peace, of his mind 
over whom it reigns ; that, in its progress, it engages him in pur- 
suits which are marked eitiier with danger or with shame ; that, in 
the end, it wastes his fortune, destroys his health, or debases his 
character; and aggmvates all the miseries in which it has in- 
volved him, with the concluding pangs of bitter remorse. Through 
all the stages of this fatal course, how many have heretofore run ? 
What multitudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with blind and 
headlong steps ? B l a i r» 

SECTION VIL 

On thefirofier state of our temfier^ nvith respect to one another. 

1. It is evident, in the general, that if we ccaisult either public 
welfare or private happiness. Christian charity ought to regulate 
our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as this gi'eat principle 
admits of several diversified appearances, let us consider some of 
the chief forms under which it ought to show itself in the usual 
tenor of life. 

2. Whut, first, presents itself to be recommended, is a peace- 
able temper ; a disposition averse to give offence, and desirous of 
cultivating harmony, and amicable intercourse in society. This 
supposes yielding and condescending manners, unwillingness to con- 
tend with others about trifles, and, in contests that are unavoidable, 
proper moderation of spirit. 

3. Such a temper is the first principle of self-enjoyment. It is 
the basis of all order and happiness among mankind. The posi- 
tive and contentious, the rude and quarrelsome, are the bane of 
society. They seem destined to blast the small share of comfort 
which nature has here allotted to man. But they cannot disturb 
the peace of others, more than they break their own. The hur- 
ricane rages first in their own bosom, before it is let forth upon 
the world. In the tempests which they raise, they are always 
tost ; and frequently it is their lot to perish. 

4. A peaceable temper must be supported by a candid (me, or 
a disposition to view the conduct of others with fairness and impar- 
tiality. This stands opposed to a jealous and suspicious temper, 
which ascribes eveiy action to the worst motive, and throws a 
black shade over every character. If we would be happy in our- 
selves, or in our connexions with others, let us guai*d against this 
malignant spirit Let us study that charity ** which thinketh no 



112 THE ENGLISH READER, Part 1 

evil;" that temper which, without degenerating into credulity, 
will dispose us to be just ; and which can allow us to observe an 
error, without imputing it as a crime. Thus we shall be kept 
fi-ee from that continual irritation, which imaginary injuries raise 
in a suspicious breast ; and shall walk among men as our brethren, 
not as our enemies, 

5. But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is re- 
quired of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, generous, and 
sympathizing temper, which feels for distress, wherever it is be- 
held ; which enters into the concerns of his friends with ardour ; 
and to all with whom he has intercourse, is gentle, obliging, and 
humane. How amiable appears such a disposition, when contrast- 
ed with a malicious or envious temper, which wraps itself up in its 
own narrow interest, looks with an evil eye on the success of others, 
and, with an unnatural satisfaction, feeds on their disappointments 
or miseries ! How little does he know of the true happiness of 
life, who is a stranger to that intercourse of good offices and kind 
affections, which, by a pleasing charm, attaches men to one another, 
and circulates joy from heart to heart! 

6. We are not to imagine, that a benevolent temper finds no ex- 
ercise, unless when opportunities offer of performing actions c^ 
high generosity, or of extensive utility. These may seldom occur. 
The condition of the greater part of mankind in a good measure, 
precludes them. But, in the ordinary round of human affaii's, many 
occasions daily present themselves, of mitigating the vexations 
which others suffer ; of soothing their minds ; of aiding their inter- 
est ; of promoting their cheerfulness, or ease. Such occasions may 
relate to the smaller incidents of life, 

7. But let us I'emember, that of small incidents the system of 
human life is chiefly composed. The attentions which respect 
these, when suggested by real benignity of temper, are often more 
material to the happiness of those around us, than actions which 
carry the appearance of greater dignity and splendour. No wise 
or good man ought to account any rales of behaviour as below his 
I'egard, which tend to cement the great brotherhood of mankind in 
comfortable union. Particularly amidst that familiar intercourse 
which belongs to domestic life, all the virtues of temper find an 
ample range, 

8. It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too often 
think themselves at libeity, to give unrestrained vent to the caprice 
of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the contrary, more 
than any where else, it concerns them to attend to the government 
of their heart ; to check what is violent in their tempers, and to 
soften what is Ijarsh in their manners. For there the temper is 
formed. There, the real character displays itself. The forms 
of the world disguise men when abroad. But within his own 
family, every man is known to be what he truly is. 

9. In all our intercourse then with others, particularly in that 
which is closest and most intimate, let us cultivate a peaceable, 
a candid, a gentle, and friendly temper. This is the temper to 
which, by repeated injunctions, our holy religion seekii to form us. 
This was the temper of Christ, This is the temper of Heaven. 

BLAIR. 



tkafi. 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 113 

SECTION VIII. 

Excellence of the holy Scriptures, 

1. Is it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Gospel, with 
full assurance ot faith ? I gloiy in such bigotry. I would not part 
with it for a thousand worlds. I congratulate the man who is pos- 
sessed of it: for, amidst all the vicissitudes and calamities of the 
present state, that man enjoys an inexhaustible fund of consolatiwi, 
c3f which it is not in the power of fortune to deprive him. 

2. There is not a book on earth, so favourable to all the kind, 
and all the sublime affections ; or so unfriendly to hatred and per- 
secution, to tyranny, to injustice, and eveiy sort of malevolence, as 
the Gospel. It breathes nothing throughout, but mercy, benevo- 
lence, and peace. 

3. Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any great 
and good affection, as piety, or patriotism. This is one ot the 
noblest effects of the art. The Psalms are remarkable, beyond all 
other writings, for their power of inspiring devout emotions. But 
it is not in this respect only, that they are sublime. Of the divine 
nature, they contain the most magnificent descriptions, that the 
soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and fourth Psalm, in 
particular, displays the power and goodness of Providence, in cre- 
ating and preserving the world, and the various tribes of animals 
in it, with such majestic brevity and beauty, as it is vain to look 
for in any human composition. 

4. Such of the doctrines of the Gospel as are level to human 
capacity, appear to be agi^eeable to the purest truth, and the sound- 
est morality. All the genius and learning of the heathen world ; 
all the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and Aristotle, had 
never been able to produce such a system of moral duty, and so 
rational an account of Providence and of man, as are to be found 
in the New Testament. Compared, indeed, with this, all other 
moi^ and theological wisdom 

Loses, discountenanc'd, and like folly shows. bbatti& 

SECTION IX. 

Rejiections occasioned by a review of the blessings, fironounced 
by Christ on his disciples, in his sermon on the mount, 

1. What abundant reason have we to thank God, that this 
large and instructive discourse of our blessed Redeemer, is so par- 
ticularly recorded by the sacred historian. Let eveiy one that 
**hath ears to hear," attend to it : for surely no man ever spoke as 
our Lord did on this occasion. Let us fix our minds in a posture of 
humble attention, that we may ** receive the law from his mouth.** 

2. He opened it with blessings, repeated and most important 
blessings. But on whom are they pronounced ? and whom are wc 
taught to think the happiest of mankind? The meek and the 
humble ; the penitent and the merciful ; the peaceful and the pure; 
tliose that hunger and thirst after righteousness ; those that labour, 
but faint not, under persecution ! Lord ! how different are thy 
maxims from those of the children of this world ! 

3. They call the proud happy ; and admire the gay, the rich, 
the powerful, and the victorious. But let a vain world take its 
gaudy trifles, and dress up the foolish creatures that pursae them. 
May our souls share in that happiness, wliich the Son of God-came 



lU THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

to recommend and to procure ! May we obtain mercy oi the Lord; 
may we be owned as his children ; enjoy his presence ; and inherit 
his kingdom! With these enjoyments, and these hopes, we will 
cheerfully welcome the lowest, or the most painful circumstances. 

4. Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable virtues, which 
are here recommended to us ; this humility and meekness ; this 
penitent sense of sin; this ardent desire after righteousness; this 
compassion and purity; this peacefulness and fortitude of soul; 
and, in a word, this universal goodness which becomes us, as we 
sustain the character of "the salt of the earth," and "the light of 
the world. " 

5. Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the charac- 
ter no better ? Is there not reason to exclaim with a good man in 
former times, '| Blessed Lord! either these are not thy words, or 
we are not Christians !" Oh, season our hearts more effectually 
with thy grace ! Pour forth that divine oil on our lamps I Then 
shall the flame brighten ; then shall the ancient honours of thy 
religion be revived ; and multitudes be awakened and animated, 
by the lustre of it, *<to glorify our Father in heaven," 

DODDRIDGE. 
SECTION X. 

Schemes of life often illusory^ 

1. Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy-five years in 
honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive califs had 
filled his house with gold and silver ; and whenever he appeared, 
the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage. 

2. Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The bright- 
ness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the fragrant flower is pass- 
ing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail ; 
the curls of beauty fell from his head; strength departed from his 
hands ; and agility from his feet. He gave back to the calif the 
keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy ; and sought no other plea- 
sure for the remains of life, than the converse of the wise, and the 
gratitude of the good. 

3. The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His cham- 
ber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experi- 
ence, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son 
of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and retired late. 
He was beautiful and eloquent : Omar admired his wit, and loved 
his docility. ''Tell me," said Caled, ''thou to whose voice nations 
have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of 
Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts 
by which thou hast gained power and preserved it, are to thee no 
longer necessary or useful ; impart to me the secret of thy con- 
duct, and teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy 
fortune." 

4. "Young man," said Omar, "it is of little use to form plans 
of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twen- 
tieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, 
in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a 
cedar, which spread its branches over my head : ' Seventy yeajrs 
are allowed to man ; I have yet fifty remaining. 

5. " Ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and ten 
I win pass m foreign countries ; I shall be learned, and therefore 



Ckifu 9. PROMISCUOUS PlECEa lis 

shall be honoured ; eveiy city will shout at my arrival, ai^ ^^^tX 
student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed, wiu 
store my mind with images, which I shall be busy, through the 
rest of my life, in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inex- 
'haustible accumulations of intellectual riches ; I shall find new plea- 
sures for every moment ; and shall never more be weary of myselt 
6. **I will not, however, deviate too far from the beaten track 
of hfe ; but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will 
marry a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide : with 
her 1 will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in 
every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent* 
■ 7. **I will then retire to a rural dwelling ; pass my days in ob- 
scurity and contemplation; and lie silently down on the bed of 
death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I 
will never depend upon the smile of princes ; that I will never 
stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I will never pant for public 
honours, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state. ' Such was 
my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory. 

8. **The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in searcn 
of knowledge, and I know not how I was diverted from my de- 
sign. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable 
passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest honour, 
and the most engaging pleasure ; yet day stole upon day, and month 
glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had 
vanished, and left nothing behind them. 

9. '*I now postponed my purpose of travelling; for why should 
I go abroad, while so much remained to be learned at home } I 
immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the em- 
pire. The fame of my skill reached the judges ; I was found able 
to speak upon doubtful questions ; and was commanded to stand at 
the footstool of the calit. I was heard with attention ; I was con- 
sulted with confidence ; and the love of praise fastened on my heart. 

10. "I still wished to see distant countries; listened with rapture 
to the relations of travellers ; and resolved some time to ask my 
dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty ; but my pre- 
sence was always necessary ; and the stream of busiaess hurried 
me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I should be charged with 
ingratitude : but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not 
confine myself by marriage. 

11. ''In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the time of trav- 
elling was past ; and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet 
in my power, and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But at 
fifty no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the Houries, and 
wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and delibe- 
rated, till the sixty- second year made me ashamed of wishing to 
marry. I had now nothing left but retirement ; and for retirement I 
never found a time, till disease forced me from public employment. 

12. *' Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. 
With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years 
of improvement ; with a restless desire of seeing different coun- 
tries, I have always resided in the same city; with the highest ex- 
pectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried ; and with 
unalterable resolutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to 
diewithin the walls of Bagdat." dr. johnson 



116 THE ENGLISH READER. Port t 

SECTION XL 

The pleasures of virtuous sensibility. 

1. The good effects of true sensibility on general virtue and hap- 
piness, admit of no dispute. Lpt us consider its effect on the hap- 
piness of him who possesses it, and the various pleasures to which 
It gives him access. If he is master of riches or influence, it affords 
him the means of increasing his own enjoyment, by relieving the 
wants, or increasing the comforts of others. If he commands not 
these advantages, yet all the comforts, which he sees in the posses- 
sion of the deseinang, become in some sort his, by his rejoicing in 
the good which they enjoy. 

2. Even the face of nature yields a satisfaction to him, which 
the insensible can never know. The profusion of goodness, which 
he beholds poured forth on the universe, dilates his heart with the 
thought, that innumerable multitudes around him are blest and 
happy. When he sees the labours of men appearmg to prosper, 
and views a country flourishing in wealth and mdustry ; when he 
beholds the spring coming forth in its beauty, and reviving the de- 
cayed face ot nature ; or in autumn beholds the fields loaded with 
plenty, and the year crowned with all its fmits ; he lifts his affec- 
tions with gratitude to the great Father of all, and rejoices in the 
general felicity and joy, 

3. It may kideed be objected, that the same sensibility lays open 
the heart to be pierced with many wounds, from the distresses 
which abound in the world ; exposes us to frequent suffering from 
the participation which it communicatees of the sorrows, as well as 
of the joys of friendship. But let it be considered, that the tender 
melancholy of sympathy, is accompanied with a sensation, which 
they who feel it would not exchange for the gratifications of the 
selhsh. When the heart is strongly moved by any of the kind 
affections, even when it pours itself forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret 
attractive charm mingles with the painful emotion ; tliere is a joy 
in the midst of grief. 

4. Let it be farther considered, that the griefs which sensibility 
introduces, ai^ counterbalanced by pleasures which flow from the 
same source. Sensibility heightens in general the human powers, 
and is connected with acuteness in all our feelings. If it makes us 
more alive to some painful sensations, in return, it renders the 
pleasing ones more vivid and animated. 

5. The selfish man languishes in his narrow circle of pleasures. 
They are confined to v/hat affects his own interest. He is obliged 
to repeat the same gratifications, till they become insipid. But the 
man of virtuous sensibility moves in a wider sphere of felicity. His 
powers are much more ireouently called forth into occupations of 
pleasing activity. Numberfess occasions open to him of indulging 
his favourite taste, by conveying satisfaction to others. Often xt is 
in his power, in one way or other, to sooth the affiicted heart, to 
carry some consolation into the house of wo. 

6. In the scenes of ordinary life, in the domestic and social in- 
tercourses of men, the cordiality of his affections cheers and glad- 
dens him. Every appearance, every description of innocent hap- 
piness, is enjoyed by him. Every native expression of kindness anl 
affection among others, is felt by liim, even though he be not tfc© 



Chaji.^. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 117 

dDJect of it In a circle of friends enjoying or^ another, he is as 



happy as the happiest. 
7. In; 



a ^vord, he lives in a different sort of world, from what 
the selfish man inhabits. He possesses a new sense that enables 
him to behold objects which the selfish cannot see. At the same 
time, his enjoyments are not of that kind which remain merely on 
the surface of the mind. They penetrate the heart. They en- 
large and elevate, they refine and ennoble it To all the pleasing 
emotions of affection, tney add the dignified consciousness of virtue. 

8. Children of men ! men foraied by nature to live and to feel 
as brethren! how long will ye continue to estrange yourselves from 
one another by competitions and jealousies, when m cordial union 
ye might be so much more blest ? How long will ye seek your 
happiness in selfish gratifications alone, neglecting those purer and 
better sources of joy, v/hich flow from the affections and the 
heart? elair. 

SECTION XII. 
On the true honour of maru 

1, The proper honour of man arises not from some of those 
splendid actions and abilities, which excite high admiration. Cour- 
age and prowess, military renown, signal victories and conquests, 
may render the name of a man famous, without rendering his 
cliaracter tinily honourable. To many brave men, to many heroes 
renowned in story, we look up with wonder. Their exploits are 
recorded. Their praises are sung. They stand as on an eminence 
above the rest of mankind. Their eminence, nevertheless,, may 
not be of that sort, before which we bow with inward esteem and 
respect Something more is wanted for that purpose,, thar. tV-* 
conquering arm, and the intrepid mind, 

% The laurels of the warrior must at all times be dyed in oiood, 
and bedewed with the tears of the widow and the orphan. But 
if they have been stained by rapine and inhumanity; if sordid ava- 
rice has marked his character ; or low and gross sensuality has de- 
graded his life ; the gi-eat hero sinks into a little man. What, at a 
distance, or on a supei-ficial view, we admired, becomes mean, 
Dei'haps odious, when we examine it more closely. It is hke the 
Colossal statue, whose immense size struck the spectator afar off 
with astonishment; but when nearly viewed, it appears dispro- 
portioned, unshapely, and rude. 

3. Observations of the same kind may be applied to all the repu- 
tation derived from civil accomplishments ; from the refined poli- 
tics of the statesman ; or the literary efforts of genius and erudi- 
tion. These bestow, and within certain bounds, ought to bestow, 
eminence and distinction on men. They discover talents '^'hich in 
themselves are shining ; and which become highly valuable, when 
employed in advancing the good of mankind. Hence, they fre- 
quently give nse to fame. But a distinction is to be made between 
fame and true honour. 

4. The statesman, the o?^tor, or the poet, may be famous; 
while yet the man himself is far from being honoured. We envy 
his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would not choose to 
be classed with him who possesses them. Instances of this sort 
are too often found in every record of ancient or modem history. 

5. From all this it follows, that in order to discern where man's 



118 THE ENGLISH READER. Poft 1^ 

true honour lies, we must look, not to any adventitious circum- 
stance of fortune ; not to any single sparkling quality ; but to the 
whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him, as such, to rank 
high among that class of beingg. to which he belc«igs ; in a won!, 
we must look to the mind and the soul. 

6. A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption; a 
mind governed by the principles of uniform rectitude and integrity; 
the same in prosperity and adversity ; which no bribe can seduce^ 
nor terror overawe ; neither b)^ pleasure melted into effeminacy, 
nor by distress sunk into dejection : such is the mind which forms 
the distinction and eminence of man. 

7. One, who in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afrsdd 
of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part with firmness 
and constancy ; true to the God whom he worships, and true to 
the faith in which he professes to believe; full of affection to his 
brethren of mankind ; faithful to his friends, generous to his ene- 
mies, warm with compassion to the unfortunate ; self-denying to 
little private interests and pleasures, but zealous for public interest 
and happiness ; magnanimous, without being proud ; numble, with- 
out being mean ; just, without being harsh ; simple in his man- 
ners, but manly in his feelings ; on whose words we can entirely 
rely; whose countenance never deceives us; whose professions df 
kindness are the effusions of his heart : one, in fine, whom, inde- 
pendent of any views of advantage, we would choose for a supe- 
rior, could trust in as a friend, and could love as a brother — ^this is 
the man, whom in our heart, above all others, we do, we must 

Uonour. BLAIR* 

SECTION XIIL 

The influence of devotion on the hafifiinesa of life, 

1. Whatever promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever calms 
and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. ^ Devotion pro- 
duces these effects in a remarkable degree, it insjDires composure 
of spirit, mildness, and benignity ; weakens the painful, and cheiv 
ishes the pleasing emotions ; and, by these means, carries on the 
life of a pious man in a smooth and placid tenor. 

2. Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, devotion 
opens a field of enjoyments, to which the vicious are entire stran- 
gers ; enjoyments the more valuable, as they peculiarly belong to 
retii^ment, when the world leaves us ; and to adversity, when it 
becomes our foe. These are the two seasons, for which every 
wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. 

3. For let him be placed in the most favourable situation which 
the human state admits, the world can neither always amuse him, 
nor al yays shield him from distress. There will be many hours 
of vacuity, and many of dejection, in his life. If he be a stranger 
to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of solitude 
cjften prove ! With what oppressive weight will sickness, disap- 
pointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits ! 

4.' But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief pre- 
pared. From the tiresome repetition of the common vanities of 
life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sorrows, devo* 
tion transports him into a new region; and surrounds him there 
with such objects, as are the most fitted to cheer the dejection, to 
calm the tumults, and to heal the wounds of his heart. 



Chafi, 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 119 

5. If the world has been empty and dekisive, it gladdens him 
with the prospect of a higher and better order of things, about to 
arise. If men have been ungi^ateful and base, it displays before 
him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though every 
other friend fail, will never forsake him. 

6. Let us consult our experience, and we shall find, that the two 
greatest sources of inward joy, are, the exercise of love directed 
towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope terminating 
on some high and assured happiness. Both these are supplied by 
devotion ; and therefore we have no reason to be surprised, if, on 
some occasions, it fills the hearts of good men with a satisfaction 
not to be expressed. 

7. The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many respects, 
superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They are pleasures 
wnich belong to the highest powers and best affections of the soul : 
whereas the gratifications of sense reside in the lowest region ol 
our nature. To the latter, the soul stoops beloAv its native dignity. 
The former, raise it above itself. The latter, leave alwa^ a 
comfortless, often a mortifying, remem.brance behiad them. The 
former, are rcviewed with applause and delight. 

8. The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which, 
after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves an empty 
and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotion resemble the 
couable current of a i)ure river, which enlivens the fields through 
wnich it passes, and diflfuses verdure and fertility along its banks. 

9. To thee, O Devotion ! we owe the highest improvement of 
our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou art the 
support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this turbulent 
world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest the passicms. 
Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, and thine only, 
are imparted to the low, no less than to the high ; to the poor, 
as well as to the rich, 

10. In thy presence, worldly distinctions cease; and under thv in- 
fluence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art the balm oi the 
wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to the miserable ; in- 
accessible only to the unrighteous and impure. Thou beginnest on 
earth the temper of heaven. In thee, the hosts of angels and 
blessed spirits eternally rejoice. blair. 

SECTION XIV. 

The filanetary and terrestnal worlds comparatively considered. 

1. To us, who dwell on its surface, the eaith is by far the most 
extensive orb that our eyes can any where behold: it is also clothed 
with verdure, distinguished by trees, and- adorned with a variety 
of beautiful decorations ; whereas, to a spectator placed on one of 
the planets, it wears a uniform aspect ; looks all luminous ; and nc 
larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances, 
it entirely disappears. 

2. That which we call alternately the moniing and the evening 
star, (as in one part of the orbit she rides foremost in the pro- 
cession of night, in the other ushers in and anticipates the dawn,.) 
is a planetary world. This planet, and the four others that so 
wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, 
and shine only by reileetion ; liave fields, and seas, and skies, of 



120 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

their own; are furnished with all accommodations for animal sub- 
sistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life ; all 
which, together with our earthly habitation, are dependent cai 
that grand dispenser of Divine munificence, the sun ; receive their 
light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort 
from his benign agency. 

3, The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through 
the sky, is in this respect fixed and immoveable : it is the great 
axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more 
spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seem- 
ingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abundantly larger than 
this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such 
vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the 
centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight 
hundred thousand miles ; a girdle formed to go round its circum- 
ference, would require a length of millions. Were its solid con- 
tents to be estimated, the account would overwhelm our under- 
standing, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. 

4, Are we startled at these reports of philosophy ! Are we ready 
to cry out in a transport of surprise, '* Hov/ mighty is the Eeing 
who kindled so prodigious a fire ; and keeps alive, from age to 
age, so enormous a mass of flame!" let us attend our philosophical 
guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more 
enlarged and more inflaming. 

5, This sun with all its attendant planets, is but a very little 
part of the grand machine of the universe: every star, though in 
appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's 
nng, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and m glory ; no 
less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So 
that every star, is not barely a world, but the centre of a magnifi- 
cent system ; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and 
revolving round its attractive influence, all which are lost to our 
sight in unmeasurable wilds of ether, 

6, That the stars appear like so many diminutive, and scarcely 
distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and inconceiva- 
ble distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is, since a ball, 
shot from the loaded cannon, and flying with unabated rapidity, 
must travel, at this impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thou- 
sand years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling 
luminaries. 

7, While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my ovm extreme 
meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all terres- 
trial things. What is the earth, with all her ostentatious scenes, com- 
pared with this astonishing grand furniture of the skies ? What, 
but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe ? 

8, It is observed by a very judicious writer, that if the sun him- 
self, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, 
and all the host of planetary worlds, which move about him, were 
annihilated, they would not be missed by an eye that can take in 
the whole compass of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon 
the sea-sliore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space 
which they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the 
whole, that their loss would scarcely leave a blank m the immen- 
sity of God's works. 



Chafi. 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. J21 

9. If then, not our globe only, iDut this whole systenv, be so very 
diminutive, what is a kingdom or a country i* What are a few lord- 
ships, or the so much admired patriijionies of those who are styled 
wealthy ? When I measure them with my own little pittance, the^ 
swell into proad and bloated dimensions : but when I take the uni- 
verse for my standard, how scanty is their size ! how contemptible 
their figure ! They shrink into pompous nothings, Addison. 

SECTION XV. 
On the power of custom, and the uses to which it may be afifilied^ 

1. There is not a common saying, which has a better turn of 
sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, 
that 'Custom is a second nature.' It is indeed able to form the 
man anew; and give him inclinations and capacities altogether 
different from those he was born with. 

2. A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took 
but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an 
inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it 
seems the only end of his being. I'he love of a retired or busy 
life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conversant in the 
one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for relishing that to 
which he has been for some time disused. 

3. Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is una- 
ble to pass away his time without it ; not to mention how our de- 
light in any particular study, art, or science, rises and improves, in 
pi'oportion to the application which v/e bestow upon it. Thus, 
what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertaiiunent. 
Our employments are changed into diversions. The mind grows 
fond of those actions it is accustomed to ; and ts drawn Avith re- 
luctancy from those paths in which it has been used to walk. 

4. If we attentively consider this property of human nature, it 
may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I would 
have no man discouraged v/ith that kind of hfe, or series of action, 
in which the choice of others, or his own necessities, may have 
engaged him. It may perhaps be very disagreeable to him, at 
first ; but use and application will certainly render it not only less 
paintul, but pleasing and sa-tisfactory. 

5. In the second place, I would recommend to every one, the ad- 
mirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given to his 
discipleSj and which that philosopher must have drawn from the 
observation I have enlarged upon : *' Pitch upon that course of life 
which is the most excellent, and custom will render it the most 
delightful." 

6. Men, whose circumstances will permit them to choose their 
own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which, 
their judgment tells them is the most laudable. The voice d 
reason is more to be regarded, than the bent of any present incli- 
nation: since, by the rule above-mentioned, inclination will at 
length come over to reason, though we can never force reason to 
comply with inclinaticm. 

7. In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual 
and irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and difficulties, 
which are apt to discourat?;e him from the prosecution of a virtuous 
Ufe. ** The gods," said Hcsiod, *^have placed labour before vir- 

L 



129 THE ENGUSH READER. Fart 1, 

Uie ; the way to her is at fii-st rough and difficult, but grows moi-c 
sniJoth and easy the iarthcr we advance m it,' 1 he man who 
pnxeeds in it with steadiness and resohition, will, m a little time, 
lind that ♦'her ways are ways of pleasantness, and that aU her 

paths are peace." . r ^x. x. tx. •, 

8 To enforce this consideration, we n^ay further observe, that 
the practice of i-eligion will not only be attended with that plea- 
sure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are 
habituated, but with those supemumei-aiy joys of heart, that rise 
from the consciousness of such a pleasure; from the satistacUon ot 
acting up to the dictates of i^ason ; and from the pixDspect ot a 

^9?\n the fourth place, we may learn from this observation 
which we have made on the mind of man, to talce particular care, 
when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too 
frequently indulge ourselves in even the most innocent diversions 
and entertmnments; since the mind may insensibly liill oft trom 
the relish of virtuous actions, and by degrees, exchange that plea^ 
sure which it takes in the performance of its duty, lor delights ot 
a much inferior and an unprofitable nature. 

10. The last use which I shall make of this remarkable proper- 
ty in himian nature, of being delighted with those actions to which 
it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessiiry it is for us to 
eain habits of virtue in this life, if we would enjoy tue pleasures ot 
the next. The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be aipable 
of affecting: those minds which are not thus qualihed lor it; we 
must, m this world, gain a relish for truth and virtue, it we would 
be able to taste that knowledge and perfection, which arc to make 
us happy m the next. The seeds ot those spiritual joys and rap- 
tures, which are to rise up and llourish in the soul to iill etermtv, 
must be planted in it during this its present state of probation. In 
short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the i-eward, but as 
the natural effect of a religious life. addison. 

SECTION XVI. 
The fileasiirea resuming from a proper use of cur faculties. 

1 Happy that man, who, unembarrassed by vidgar cares, 
master of himself, his time, and fortune, spends his time in making 
himself wiser; and his fortune, in making others (and thei-elore 
himself) happier : who, as the will and understanding are the two 
ennobling faculties of the soul, thinks himselt not complete, till his 
understanding is beautified with the valuable furniture otkuow- 
led^:e, as well as his will enriched with every virtue; who has lur- 
nished himself with all the advantages to rehsh solitude and enliven 
conversation ; who when serious, is not sullen ; and when cheerhil, 
not indiscreetly gay; whose ambition is, not to be admired tor a 
false glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and sober 
lustre of his wisdom and goodness. 

2 The greatest minister of state has not more business to do, 
in a public capacity, than he, and indeed every other man, niay 
find in the retired and still scenes of lite. Even in his private walks, 
everv thine that is visible convinces him there is present a 15emg 
invisible. Aided by natural philosophy, he reads plaiR legible 
ti-aces of the Divinitv in everv thing he meets: he sees the Ueity 



Chafu a PROMISCUOUS PIECES, 123 

in every tree, as well as Moses did in the burning bush, thoii^h 
not in so glaring a manner : and when he sees him, he adores him 
with the tribute of a grateful heart, beed« 

SECTION xvn, 

Deficrifition of candour, 

1. True candour is altogether chiFerent from that guarded, inof- 
fensive language, and that studied openri<^ss of behaviour, v/hich 
we so frequently meet with among mtJi of the world. Smiling, 
very oftea, is the aspect, and smooth are the words, of those who 
inwardly are the most ready to think evil of others. That candour 
which is a Christian virtue, consists, not in fairness of speech, but 
in fairness of heart. 

2. It may want the blandishment of external c^^wrtesy, but sup- 
pHes its place with a humane and generous liberality of 'sentiment. 
Its manners are unaffected, and its professions cordial. Exempt, on 
one hand, from the dark jealousy of a suspicious mind, it is no less 
rem(wed, on the other, from that easy credulity which is imposed 
on by every spjecious [jretence^ It is perfectly consistent witn ex- 
tensive knowledge of the world, and with due attention to our own 
safety. 

3. In that various intercourse, which we are obliged to carry on 
with persons of everv' different chai'acter, suspicion, to a certam 
degree, is a necessary guard. It is only when it exceeds the 
?:>ottads of prudent caution, that it degenerates into vice. There 
is a proper mean betvs^een undistinguished credulity, and universal 
jealousy, which a sound underst,anding discerns, and which the 
man of' candour studies to preserve, 

4. He makes allowance for the mixture of evil v/ith good, 
wliich is to be found in every human character. He expects none 
to be faultless; and he is unwilling to Vjelieve that thei^e is any 
without some commendable qualities. In the midst of many de- 
fects, he can discm-er a virtue. Under the influence of personal 
resentment, he can be just to the merit cf an enemy, 

5. He never lends an open ear to those defamatory reports and 
dark suggestions, which, amon^ the tribes of the censorious, circu- 
late with so much rapidity, arid meet with so ready acceptance. 
He is not hasty to judge; and he requires full evidence before he 
will condemn. 

6. As long as an action can be ascribed to different motives, he 
hdds it as no mark of sagacity to im.pute it always to the worst. 
Where there is just ground for doubt, lie keeps his judgment un- 
decided ; and, during the period of suspense, leans to the most 
charitable construction which an action can bear. When he must 
condemn, he condemns with regret ; and without those aggrava- 
tions which the severity of others adds to the crime. He listens 
calmly to the apology of the offender, and readily admits every 
extenuating circumstance, which equity can suggest. 

7. How much soever he may blame the principles of any sect or 
party, he never confounds, under one general censure, all who 
fjelong to that party or sect. He charges them not with such con- 
sequences of their tenets, as they refuse and disavow. From one 
wrong opinioTi, he does not infer the subversion of ail sound prin - 
ciples ; nor from one bad action, conclude that all regard to oon 
science is overthrown. 



134 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

8. Wlien he '* beholds the mote in his brother's eye," he re- 
members *Hhe beam in his own." He commiserates human 
frailty ; and judges of others according to the principles, by whicli 
he would thmk it reasonable that they should judge of him. In 
k word, he views men and actions in the clear sunshine of charity 
and good nature ; and not in that dark and sullen shade which 
jealousy and party-spirit throw over all characters. blaih. 

SECTION XVIII. 

On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely o?i 

worldly pleasures, 

1. The vanity of human })leasures, is a topic which might be 
embellished with the pomp of much description. But I shall stu- 
diously avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold vanity 
in human life, which every impartial observer cannot but admit ; 
disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoyment, uncertainty 
ki possession. 

2. First, disappointment in pursuit. When we look around us 
on the world, we evei'y where behold a busy multitude, intent on 
the prosecution of various designs, which their wants or desires 
have suggested. We behold them employing every method which 
ingenuity can devise; some the patience of industry, some the 
boldness of enterprise, others the dexterity of stratagem, in order 
to compass their ends. 

3. Ot this incessant stir and activity, what is the fruit ? In com- 
painson of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small is the 
number of the successful ? Or rather where is the man who will 
declare, that in every point he has completed his plan, and attain 
©d his utmost wish ? 

4. No extent of human abilities has been able to discover a path 
which, in any line of life, leads unerringly to success. ** The raco 
is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches 
io men of understanding," We may form our plans with the 
most profound sagacity, and with the mcst vigilant caution may 
guard against dangei^ on every side. But some unforeseen occur- 
rence comes across, which baffles our wisdom, and lays our la- 
bours in the dust. 

5. Were such disappointments confined to those who aspire at 
engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfortune would be 
less. The humiliation of the mighty, and the fall of ambition from 
its towering height, little concern the bulk of mankind These 
arp objects on which, as on distant meteors, they gaze from afar, 
without drawing personal instruction from events so much above 
them. 

6. But, alas ! when we descend into the regions of private life, 
we find disappointment and blasted hope equally prevalent there. 
Neither the moderation of our views, nor the justice of our preten- 
sions, can ensure success. But " time and chance happen to all.'^ 
Against the stream of events, both the worthy and the undeserving 
are obliged to struggle ; and both are frequently overborne alike by 
the current. 

T. Besides disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in ernoy- 
ment is a farther vanity, to which the human state is subject. This 
h ttw severest of all mortifications i after having been succesdit 



Chaii. 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 125 

in the pursuit, to be baffled in the enjoyment itself. Yet this is 
found to be an evil still more general than the former. Some 
may be so fortunate as to attain what they have pursued; but 
none are rendered completely happy by what they have attained. 

8. Disappointed hope is misery ; and yet successful hope is only 
imperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of mankind. Kxamine 
the condition of those who appear most prosperous ; and you wiH 
find that they are never just what they desire to be. If retired, 
they lan^iish for action ; if busy, they complain of fatigue. If in 
middle life, they are impatient for distinction ; if in high stations, 
they sigh after freedom and ease. Something is still wanting to 
that plenitude of satisfaction, which tliey expected to acquire. To- 
gether with every wish that is gratified, a new demand arises. One 
void opens in the heart, as another is filled. On wishes, wishes 
grow ; and to the end, it is rather the expectation of what they 
have not, than the enjoyment of what they have, which occupies 
and interests the most successful. 

9. This dissatisfaction in the midst of human pleasure, spnngs 
partly from the nature of our enjoyments themselves, find partly 
from circumstances which corrupt them. No wordly enjoyments 
are adequate to the high desires and powers of an immortal spirit. 
Fancy paints them at a distance witn splendid colours ; but pos-* 
session unveils the fallacy. The eagerness of passion bestows upon 
them, at first, a brisk and lively relish. But it is their fate always 
to pall by familiarity, and sometimes to pass from satiety into 
disgust. 

10. Happy would the poor man think himself, if he could enter 
on all the treasures of the rich ; and happy for a short time he 
might be : but before he had long contemplated and admired his 
state, his possessions would seem to lessen, and his cares would grow. 

11. Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the attend- 
ing circumstances which never fail to coiTUpt them. For, such as 
they are, they are at no time possessed unmixed. To human lips 
it is not given to taste the cup of pure joy. When external cir- 
cumstances show fairest to tlie world, the envied man groans in 
private under his own burden. Some vexation disquiets, some 
passion coiTodes him; some distress, either felt or feared, gnaws 
tike a worm, the root of his felicity. When there is nothing fi-om 
without to disturb the prosperous, a secret poison operates within. 
For worldly happiness ever tends to destroy itself, by coiTupting 
the heart. It fosters the loose and the violent passions. It engen- 
ders noxious habits ; and taints the mind with false delicacy, which 
makes it feel a thousand unreal evils. 

12. But put the case in the most favourable light. Lay aside 
from human pleasures both disappointment in pursuit, and deceit- 
fulness in enjoyment; suppose them to be fully attainable, and 
completely satisfactory ; still there remains to be considered the 
vanity of uncertain possession and shoit duration. Were there 
in worldly things any fixed point of security which we could gain, 
the mind would then have some basis on which to rest. 

13. But our condition is such, that every thing wavers and 
totters around us, "Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou 
knowest not what a day may bring forth." It is much if, during 
its course, thou hearest not oF somewhat co disquiet or alarm thee. 

L 2 



126 THE ENGLISH READER. Fart \. 

For life never proceeds long in a uniform train. It is continually 
varied by unexpected events. 

14. The seeds of alteration are every where sown ; and the sun- 
shine of prosperity commonly accelerates their growth. If our en- 
joyments are numerous, we lie more open on different sides to be 
"wounded. If we have possessed them long, we have greater 
cause to dread an approaching change. By slow degrees prosperity 
rises ; but rapid is the progress of evil. It requires no prepai^a- 
tion to bring it forward, 

15. The edifice which it cost much time and labour to erect, 
one inauspicious event, one sudden blow, can level with the dust. 
Even supposing the accidents of life to leave us untouched, human 
bliss must still be transitory; for man changes of himself. No 
course of enjoyment can delight us long. What amused our youth, 
loses its charm in maturer age. As years advance, our powers nre 
blunted, and our pleasurable feelings decline, 

16. The silent lapse of time is ever carrying somewhat from us, 
till at length the period comes, when all must be swept awa);. 
The prospect of this termination of our labours and pursuits, is 
sufficient to mark our state with vanity, '* Our days are a hand's 
breadth, and our age is as nothing." Within that little space is 
all our enterprise bounded. We crowed it with toils and cares, with 
contention and strife. We project great designs, entertain high 
hopes, and then leave our plans unfinished, and sink into oblivion. 

17. Tiiis-much let it suffice to have said concerning the vanity 
of the world. That too much has not been said, must appear 
to every one w^ho considers how generally mankind lean to the 
opposite side ; and how often, by undue attachment to the present 
state, they both feed the most sinful passions, and ''pierce them- 
selves through with many sorrows," BLAm, 

SECTION XIX. 
What are the real ajid solid enjoyments of human life. 

1. It must be admitted, that unmixed and complete happiness is 
unknown on earth. No regulation of conduct can altogether pre- 
vent j)assions from disturbing our peace, and misfortunes froni 
wounding our heart. But after this concession is made, will it 
follow, that there is no object on earth which deserves our pur- 
suit, or that all enjoyment becomes contemptible which is not per- 
fect ? Let us survey our state with an impartial eye, and be just 
to the various gifts of Heaven. 

2. How vain soever this life, considered in itself, may be, the 
comforts and hopes of religion are sufficient to give solidity to the 
enjoyments of the righteous. In the exercise of good affections, 
and the testimony of an approving conscience; in the sense of 
peace and reconciliation with God, through tlie great Redeemer of 
mankind ; in the firm confidence of being conducted through all 
the trials of life, by infinite Wisdom and Goodness ; and in t]\e 
Joyful prospect of arriving, in the end, at immortal felicity; they 
possess a happiness which, descending from a purer and niore per- 
fect region than tliis world, partakes not of its vanity. 

3p Besides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there are other 
pleasures of our present state, which, though of an inferior order^ 
fntist not be overlooked in the estimkte of human life. It is ne-^ 



Cfiap, 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 12/ 

sessary to call attention to these, in order to check tliat repining 
and unthankful spirit to which man is always too prone. 

4. Sonne degree of importance must be allowed to the com- 
forts of health, to the innocent gratifications of sense, and to the 
enteitainment afforded us by all the beautiful scenes of nature ; 
some to the pursuits and harmless amusements of social life ; and 
more to the internal enjoyments of thought and reflection, and to 
the pleasures of afiectionate intercourse with those whom we love. 
These comfoils are often held in too low estimation, merely be- 
cause they are ordinary and common ; although that is the cir 
cumstance which ought, in i-eason, to enhance their value. They 
lie open, in some degree, to all ; extend through every rank ot 
life ; and fill up agreeably m.any of those spaces in our present ex- 
istence, which are not occupied with higher objects, or with seri- 
ous cares. 

5. From this representation it appears that, notwithstanding the 
vanity of the world, a considerable degree of comfort is attainable 
in the present state. Let the recollection of this serve to recon- 
cile us to our condition, and to repress the arrogance of com- 
plaints and murmurs. — ^Wliat ait thou, O son of man! who, 
naving sprung but yesterday out of the dust, darest to hft up thy 
voice against thy iMaker, and to arraign his providence, because 
all things are not ordered according to thy wish ? 

6. What title hast thou to find fault with the order of the uni- 
verse, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or merit gave 
thee ground to claim ! Is it nothing to thee to have been intro- 
duced into this magnificent world; to have been admitted as a 
spectator of the Divine wisdom and v/orks ; and to have had ac- 
cess to all the comforts which nature, with a bountiful hand, has 
poured forth around thee ? Are all the hours forgotten which 
thou hast passed in ease, in complacency, or joy ? 

7. Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that the hand of Divine Mercy 
has been stretched forth to aid thee ; and, if thou reject not its 
proffered assistance, is ready to conduct thee to a happier state of 
existence ? When thou comparest thy condition with thy desert, 
blush, and be ashamed of thy complaints. Be silent, be grateful, 
and adore. Receive with thankfulness the blessings which are 
allowed thee. Revere that government which at present refuses 
thee more. Rest in this conclusion, that though there are evils in 
the world, its Creator is wise and good, and has been bountiftil to 
thee, BLAIR. 

SECTION XX. 
Scale of beings, 

1. Though there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplating 
the material world ; by which I mean, that system of bodies, into 
which nature has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, 
with the several relations that those bodies bear to one another ; 
there is still, methinks, something more wonderful and sui'prising, 
-in contemplations on the world oi life ; by which I intend, all those 
animals with which every part of the universe is furnished. The 
material world is only the shell of the universe: the world of 
life are its inhabitants. 

2. If we consider those parts of the material world, which lie the 
nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our observation, and in- 



128 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

quiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals with which 
they are stocked. Every part of matter is pecpled ; every green 
leaf swarms with inhabitants. There is scarcely a single humour 
in the body of a man, or of any other animal, in which our glasses 
do not discover myriads of living creatures. We find, even in the 
most solid bodies, as in marble itself, innumerable cells and cavi- 
ties, which are crowded with imperceptible inhabitants, too little 
for the naked eye to discover. 

3. On the other hand, if we look into the more bulky parts of 
nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers, teeming with number- 
less kinds of living creatures. We find every mountain and marsh, 
wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked with birds and beasts ; 
and every pait of matter aflbrding proper necessaries and conve- 
niences, tor the livelihood of the multitudes which inhabit it. 

4. The author of "the Plurality of Worlds," dra^vs a very 
good argument from this consideration, for the peopling of eveiy 
planet; as indeed it seems very probable, from the analogy of 
reason, that if no part of matter, with which we are acquamted, 
lies waste and useless, those great bodies, which are at such a dis- 
tance from us, are not desert and unpeopled; but rather, that 
they are furnished with beings adapted to their respective situa- 
tions, i 

5. Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are endow- 
ed with perception ; and is in a manner thrown away upon dead 
matter, any farther than as it is subservient to beings v/hich are 
conscious of their existence. Accordingly we find, from the bodies 
which lie under our observation, that matter is only made as the 
basis and support of animals ; and that there is no more of the 
one than what is necessary for the existence of the other. 

6. Infinite goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it 
seems to delight in conferring existence upon every degree of per- 
ceptive being. As this is a speculation, which I have often pur- 
sued with great pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge farther upon 
it, by considering that part of the scale of beings, which comes 
within our knowledge. 

7. There are some living creatures, which are raised but just 
above dead matter. To mention only that species of shell-fish, 
which is formed in the fashion of a cone ; that grows to the sur- 
face of several rocks; and immediately dies, on being severed 
from the place where it grew. There are many other creatures 
but one remove from these, which have no other sense than that of 
feeling and taste. Others have stDl an additional one of hearing ; 
others of smell ; and others, of sight. 

8. It is wonderful to observe, by what a gradual progress the 
world of life advances, through a prodigious variety of species, be- 
fore a creature is formed, that is complete in all its senses : and 
even among these, there is such a different degree of perfection, 
in the sense which one animal enjoys beyond what appears in an- 
other, that though the sense in different animals is distinguished 
by the same common denomination, it seems almost of a different 
nature. 

9. If, after this, v/e look into the several inward perfections of 
cunning and sagacity, or what we generally call instinct, we find 
them rising, after the same manner, imperceptibly one above aa- 



Chc>}i, 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 129 

other; and receiving additional improvements, according to the 
species in which they are implanted. This progress in nature is so 
very gradual, that the most perfect of an inferior species, comes 
veiy near to the most imperfect of that which is immediately 
above it. 

10. The exuberant and. overflowing goodness of the Supreme 
Being, whose mercy extends to all his works, is plainly seen, as 
I have before hinted, in his having made so very little matter, at 
least what falls withm our knowledge, that does not swarm with 
life. Nor is his goodness less seen in the diversity, than in the 
multitude of living creatures. Had he made but one species of 
animals, none of the rest would have enjoyed the happiness of ex- 
istence : he has therefore, sjieciJiecU in his creation, every degree 
of life, every capacity of being. 

1 1. The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a man, is iiUed 
up with diverse kinds of creatures, ri^jing one after another, by 
an ascent so gentle and easy, that the little transitions and devia- 
tions from one species to another, are almost insensible. This in- 
termediate space is so well husbanded and managed, that there is 
scarcely a degree of perception, which does not appear in some 
one part of the world of life. Is the goodness, or the wisdom of the 
Divine Being, more manifested in this his proceeding ? 

12. There is a consequence, besides those I have already men- 
tioned, which seems ver}^ naturally deducible from the foregoing 
considerations. If the scale of being rises by so regular a progress, 
so high as man, we may, by parity of reason, suppose, that it still 
I)ixx:eeds gi-adually through those beings w^hich are of a superior 
nature to him ; since there is infinitely greater space and room for 
different degrees of perfection, between the Supreme Being and 
man, than between man and the most despicable insect. 

13. In this great system of being, there is no creature so won- 
derful in its nature, and which so much deserves our particular at- 
tention, as man ; who fills up the middle space between the animal 
and the intellectual nature, the visible and the invisible world ; and 
who is that link in the chain of being, which forms the connexion 
between both. So that he who, in one respect, is associated with 
angels and archangels, and may look upon a being of infinite perfec- 
tion as his father, and the highest order of spirits as his brethren, 
may, in another respect, say to "corruption, thou art my father, 
and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sistei\" addison. 

SECTION XXI. 

TruBt in the care of Providence recommended, 

1. Man, considered in himself, is a very helpless, and a very 
wretched being. He is subject every moment to the greatest 
calamities and misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all sides ; 
and may become unhappy by numberless casualties, which he 
could not foresee, nor have prevented had he foreseen them. 

2. It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many acci- 
dents, that we are under the care of one who directs contingen- 
cies, and has in his hands the management of every thing that is 
capable of annoying or offending us; who knows the assistance 
!Lve stand in need of, and is always ready to bestow it on those who 
as]( it of him. 



130 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1 

3. The natural homage, which sucli a creatire owes to so infi- 
nitely wise and good a Being, is a firm rehancc on him for the bless- 
ings and conveniences of lite ; and an habitual trust in him, for de- 
liverance out of all such dangers and difficulties as may befall us, 

4. The man who always lives in this disposition of mind, has 
not the same dark and melancholy views of human nature, as he 
who considers himself alDstractedly from this relation to the Su- 
preme Being. At the same time that he reflects upon his own 
weakness and imperfection, he comforts himself with the contem- 
plation of those divine attributes, which are employed for his safety, 
and his welfare. He finds his want of foresight made up, by the 
omniscience of him who is his support. He is not sensible of his 
own want of strength, when he knows that his helper is almighty. 

5. In short, the person who has a firm trust m the Supreme 
Being, is powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy by his 
happiness. He reaps the benefit of every divine attribute ; and 
loses his own insufficiency in the fulness of infinite perfection. To 
make our lives more easy to us, we are commanded to put our 
tinist in him, who is thus able to relieve and succour us; the Divine 
Goodness having made such a reliance a duty, notwithstanding we 
should have been miserable, had it been forbidden us. 

6. Among several motives, which might be made use of to re- 
commend this duty to us, I shall only take notice of those that fol- 
low. The first and strongest is, that we are promised, he will 
not fail those who put their trust in him. But without considering 
the supernatural blessing, which accompanies this duty, we may 
observe, that it has a natural tendency to its own reward ; or, in 
other words, that this firm trust and confidence in the great Dispo- 
ser of all things, contribute very much to the getting clear of any 
affliction, or to the bearing of it manfully. 

7. A person who believes he has his succour at hand, and that 
he acts in the sight of his friend, often exerts himself beyond his 
abilities ; and does wonders, that are not to be matched by one 
who is not animated with such a confidence of success. Trust in 
the assistance of an Almighty Being, naturally produces patience, 
hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions ot mind, which alle- 
viate those calamities that we are not able to remove. 

8. The practice of this virtue administers gi-eat comfort to the 
mind of man, in times of poverty and affliction ; but most of all, in 
the hour of cleath. When the soul is hovering, in the last moments 
of its separation ; when it is just entering on another state of ex- 
istence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions, that 
are altogether now ; what can support her under such tremblings 
of thought, such fear, such anxiety, such apprehensions, but the 
casting of all her cares upon him, who first gave her being ; who 
has conducted her through one stage of it; and who will be always 
present, to guide and comfort her in her progress through eternity? 

ADDISON. 

SECTION XXII. 

Piety and gratitude enliven firosfierity, 

1. Piety, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high decree, to 
enliven prosperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense 
of being distinguished by the kindness of another, gladdens the 



Chafi. 9. PROMISCUOUS PI?:CES. 131 

heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, and gives to any posses- 
sion which is agreeable m itself, a double relish, from its being 
\ lie gift of a friend. Favours conferred by men, I acknowledge, 
"nay prove burdensome. For human virtue is never perfect ; and 
sometimes unreasonable expectations on the one side, sometimes a 
mortifying sense of dependence on the other, corrode in secret the 
pleasures of benefits, and convert the obligations of friendship 
into grounds of jealousy. 

2. But nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse of grati- 
tude with Heaven. Its favours are wholly disinterested; and with a 
gratitude the most cordial and unsuspicious, a good man looks up 
to that Almighty Benefactor, who aims at no end but the happi- 
ness of those whom he blesses, and who desires no return n*om 
them, but a devout and thankful heart. While others can trace 
their prosperity to no higher source than a concuiTence of world- 
ly causes; and, often, of mean or trifling incidents, which occa- 
sionally favoured their designs ; with what superior satifaction does 
the servant of God remark the hand of tl\at gracious power which 
hath raised him up ; which hath happily conducted him through 
the various steps of life, and crowned him with the most favourable 
distinction beyond his equals ? 

3. Let us farther consider, that not only gratitude for the past, 
but a cheering sense of divine favour at the present, enters into 
the pious emotion. They are only the virtuous, who in their pix)s- 
perous days hear this voice addressed to them, ** Go thy way, eat 
thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a cheerful heart ; 
for God now accepteth thy works." He who is the author of 
their prosperity, gives them a title to enjoy, with complacency, his 
own gift. 

4. While bad men snatch the pleasures of the world as by 
stealth, without countenance fi'om the great Proprietor of the 
world, the righteous sit openly down to the feast of life, under the 
smile of approving heaven. No guilty fears damp their joys. The 
blessing oi God rests upon all that they possess ; his protection sur- 
rounds them ; and hence, " in the haoitations of the righteous, is 
found the voice of rejoicing and salvation." A lustre unknown to 
others, invests, in their sight, the whole face of nature. 

5. Their piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon the pros- 
perity of the world ; unites in one point of view, the smiling as- 
pect, both of the powers above, and of the objects below. Not 
only have they as full a relish as others, for the innocent pleasures 
of life, but, moreover, in these they hold communion with their 
divine benefactor. In all that is good or fair, they trace his hand 
From the beauties of nature, from the improvements of art, from 
►he enjoyments of social life, they raise their affection to the source 
of all the happiness which suri'ounds them ; and thus widen the 
sphere of their pleasures, by adding intellectual, and spiritual, to 
earthlv joys. 

6. ]f or illustration of what I have said on this head, remark that 
cheeriul enjoyment of a prosperous state, which king David had 
when he wrote the twenty-third psalm ; and compare the highest 
pleasures of the riotous sinner, with the happy and satisfied spirit 
which breathes throughout that psalm. — In the midst of the splen- 
dour of royalty, with ^vhat amiable simplicity of tjratitudc does he 



133 THE ENGLISH READER. Part J. 

look up to the Lord as *« his Shepherd ;" happier in ascribing all 
his success to Divine favour, than to the policy of his councils, or 
to the force of his arms ! 

7, How many instances of divine goodness arose before him in 
pleasing remembrance, when, with such relish, he speaks of the 
"green pastures and still waters, beside which Gcxl had led him ; 
of his cup which he had made to overflow ; and of the table which 
he had prepared for him in the presence of his enemies !" With 
what perfect tranquillity does he look forward to the time of his 
passing through *« the valley of the shadow of death ;'* unappalled 
oy that spectre, whose most distant appearance blasts the pros- 
perity of sinners ! He lears no evil, as long as " the rod and the 
stafF^' of his Divine Shepherd are with him ; and, through all the 
unknown periods of this and of future existence, commits himself 
to his guidance with secure and triumphant hope : <* Surely good 
ness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life ; and I shall 
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. " 

8. What a punlied, sentimental enjoyment of prosperity is here 
exhibited ! How different from that gross relish of Avorldly plea- 
sures, which belongs to those who behold only the terrestiial skle 
of things; who raise their views to no higher objects than the suc- 
cession of human contingencies, and the weak efforts of human 
ability ; who have no protector or patron hi the heavens, to enli-* 
ven their prosperity, or to Avarm their hearts with gratitude and 

trust! BLAIR. 

SECTION XXIIL 
Virtue^ when deefily rooted^ is ?iot subject Co the influence of 
fbrtu7ie, 

1. The city of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander^ he or- 
dered Hephestion to bestow the crown on him whom the Sidoni- 
ans should think most worthy of that honour. Hephestion being at 
that time resident with two young men of distinction, offered them 
the kingdom ; but they refused it, telling him that it was contrary 
to the laws of their country, to admit any one to that honour, who 
was not of the royal family. 

2. He then, having expressed his admiration of their disinterest- 
ed spirit, desired them to name one of the royal race, who might 
remember that he had received the crown through their hands. 
Overlooking many, who would have been ambitious of this high 
honour, they made choice of Abdolonymus, whose singular merit 
had rendered him conspicuous, even in the vale of obscurity. 
Though remotely related to the royal family, a series of misfor- 
tunes had reduced him to the necessity of cultivating a garde% 
for a small stipend, in the suburbs of the city. 

3. While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weeding his gar- 
den, the two friends of Hephestion, bearing in their hands the en- 
signs of i^oyalty, approached him, and saluted him king. They 
informed him that Alexander had appointed him to that ofhce ; 
and required him immediately to exchange his rustic garb, and 
utensils of husbandry, for the regal rob^ and sceptre. At the- 
same time, they admonished him;, when he should be seated on the 
throne, and have a nation in his power, not to forget the humble 
condition from which he had been r^^sedo 



Ckuji. 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECEa \m 

4^ All this, at the first, appeal"^ to Abdolc^ymus as aii illusion 
of the fancy, or an insult oftere<l to his poverty. He requesteii 
them not to trouble him farther with their impertinent jests ; and 
to find some other way of amusing themselves, which might leave 
him in the peaceable enjoyment of his obscure habitation,-^— At 
len^h, however, they convinced him, that they were serious in 
their proposal ; and prevailed upon him to accept the regal office, 
and accompany them to ^he palace. 

5. No sooner was he in possession of the government, than pride 
and envv created him enemies ; who v/hispered their murmurs in 
every pface, till at last they reached the ear of Alexander. He 
commanded the new-elected prince to be sent for ; and inquired 
of him, with what temper of mind he had borne his po\-erty. 
"Would to Heaven," replied Abdolonymus, '•'^that I may be able 
to bear my crown with equal moderation : for when I possessed 
little, I wanted nothing; these hands supplied me v/ith whatever I 
desired." From this answer, Alexander formed so iiigh an idea of 
»iis wisdom, that he confirmed the choice v/hich had oeen made ; 
and annexed a neighbouring province to t]ie government of Cidon. 

(^UIKTUS CITRTIUS. 

SECTION XXIV. 

The. Sfieech of Fabricius, a Roman ambasmdor, to king Pyrr- 
huSy who attemfited to bribe him to his intercate, by tfie offer of 
a great sum of money. 

1. With regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been justly 
informed. My whole estate consists in a house of but mean appear- 
ance, and a little spot of ground ; from which, by my own fabour, 
I draw my support. But if, by any means, thou hast been per- 
suaded to think that this poverty renders me of less consequence 
in my own country, or in any degree unhappy, thou art greatly 
deceived. 

2. I have no reason to complain of fortune : she supplies me 
witli all tliat nature requires ; and if I am withc/ut superfluities, I 
am also free frcm the desire of them. With these, I confess I 
should be more able to succour the necessitous, the only advan- 
tage for which the wealthy are to be envied ; but small as my pos- 
sessions are, I can still contribute something to the support of thij 
state, and the assistance of my friends. 

3. With respect to honours, my countiy places me, poor as I 
am, upon a level with the richest : for P«.ome knows no qualifica- 
tions for great employments, but virtue and ability. She appoints 
me to officiate in the most august ceremonies of rehgion ; she in 
trusts me with the command of her armies ; she confides to my 
care the most important ne^ociaticns. My poverty does not lessen 
the weight and influence of my counsels in the senate. 

4. The Roman people honour me for that very poverty, which 
king Pyrrhus considers as a disgrace. They know the many op- 
portunities I have had to enrich myself, without censure; they 
are convinced of my disinterested zeal for their prosperity : and 
if I have any thing to complain of, in the return they make me, it 

I is only the 'excess of their applause. Wh.at value, then, can i 
put upon thy gold and silver ? Wnat king can add anything to my 
fortune ? Always attentive le flischargc the dutreis incambeiit tiprm 

IVI ~ 



134 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

me, I have a mind free from self-repixmch ; and I have an honest 

SECTION XXV 
Character of James L king of England 

1. No prince, so little enterprising and so inoffensive, was ever 
so much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumny and flat- 
tery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions which began in 
his time, being still continued, have made his character be as much 
disputed to this day, as is commonly that of princes who are our 
contemporaries. 

2. Many virtues, however, it must be owned, he was possessed 
of; but not one of them pure, or free from the contagion of the 
neighbouring vices. His generosity bordered on profusion, his 
learning on pedantry, his pacific disposition on pusillanimity, his 
wisdom on cimning, his friendship on light fancy and boyish fond- 
ness. 

3. While he imagined that he was only maintaining his own 
authority, he may perhaps be suspected in some of his actions, antl 
still more of his pretensions, to have encroached on the liberties 
of his people. While he endeavoured, by an exact neutrality, to 
acquire the good will of ail his neighbours, he was able to pre- 
serve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity was con- 
siderable, but fitter to discourse on general maxims, tlian to con- 
duct any intricate business, 

4. His intentions were just, but more adapted to the conduct of 
private life, than to the government of kingdoms. Av/kv>^ard in 
his person, and ungainly in his manners, lie was ill qualified to 
conmiand respect : partial and undiscerning in his affections, he 
was httle fitted to acquire general love. Of a feeble temper, more 
than of a frugal judgment ; exposed to cur ridicule from his vanityj 
but exempt from our hatred by his freedom, from pride and arro- 
gance. 

5. And, upon the whole, it mav be pronounced of iiis character, 
that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and embellished 
by humanity. Political courage he v/as certainly devoid of; and 
from thence chiefly is derived the strong prejudice, v/hich pre- 
vails against his personal bravery: an inference, however, which 
must be owned, from general experience, to be extremely falla- 
cious, ' 'hum5 

SECTION XXVL 

Charles V. emfieror of Germany^ resigns his dominions; and 

retires from the workL 

Thi*^ great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and in 

•^^ 01 ^■^^ ^^^ honours which ca.n flatter the heart of man, 

•" -| xtraoru ^^^^y resolution, to resign his kingdoms ; and to 

-.Qssessiv • ^-4y fj-Oi"*^ any concern in business or the affairs of 

took th^ ^ -r tha*" ^-^ ri^ight spend the remainder of his 

withdraA)jf/^|^-^ , 3Qi^t^^^. . , ,. 

this v/oxid, 1;^^^^ ^ .,.^|. ^^ j^ j^ep reflection, nor extraordinary 

days SiJ:^^'f^^quirCS i. ' th^ n /^te ot T..yalty is not exempt 

i Though ^t ^ecF^;^^ |x,av -.[ those who are ex- 

c^scernment, tx> 5:^ ^^^ei^t^ ^ ^ and disgust, to be 



Chaii, 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 135 

descend voluntarily from tlie suprenie to a subordinate statical, and 
to relinquish tlie possession of power in order to attain the enjoy- 
ment of happiness, seems to be an eiTort too great for the human 
mind. 

3. Se^^ral instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs who 
have quitted a throne, and have ended their days in retirement. 
But they were either weak princes, who took this resolution rash- 
ly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken; or unfoitunate 

. princes, from whose hands some strong rival had wrested tlieir 
sceptre, and compelled them to descend vvith reluctance into a 
private station. 

4. Dioclesian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of holding 
the reins of government, wdio ever resigned them from deliberate 
choice ; and who coatinued, during many years, to enjoy the tran- 
quillity of retirement, without fetching one penitent sigh, or casting 
back one look of desire, towards the pov/er or dignity which he 
had abandoned. 

5. No wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should fill all Eu- 
rope with astonishment ; and give rise, both among his contempo- 
raries, and among the historians of that period, to various conjec- 
tiu'es concerning the motives v/hich determined a prince, whose 
ruling passion had been uniformly the love of power, at the age of 
fifty-six, when objects of ambition operate with full force on the 
mind, and are pui-sued v/ith the greatest ardour, to take a rcsolu- 
tion so singular and unexpected. 

6. The emperor, in pursuance of his determinatic«i, having as- 
sembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, seated him- 
self, for the last time, in the chair of state ; on one side of wliich 
was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the queen of Hun- 
gary, regent of the Netherlands, v/ith a splendid retinue of the 
grandees of Spain and princes of the empire standing behind him. 

7. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command, 
explained, in a few words, his intention m calling this exti^or- 
dinaiy meeting of the states. He then read the instrument of i-e- 
signation, by wliich Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his 
territories, jurisdiction, a.nd autliority in the Low Countries ; ab- 
solving his subjects there from theiV oath of allegiance to him, 
which he required them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir ; and 
to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal that they had mani- 
lested, during so long a course of years, in support of his govern- 
ment. 

8. Charles then rose fixim his seat, and leaning on the shoulder 
of the prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without 
support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and, from a paper 
which he held in hie hand, in order to assist his memory, he re- 
counted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things 
which he had undertaken and peiiomned, since the commencement 
of his administration. 

9. He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he 
I^ad dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public objects, re- 
serving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and 
veiy little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; that either in a 
pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain 
six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the I^w Ccmntries 



136 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. 

ten tSmes, England twice. Africa as often, and had made eleven 
voyages by sep. ; that while his health permitted him to discharge 
his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was equal, in any degree. 
to the arduous ofhce of governing dominions so extensive, he had 
never shunned labour, nor rcpined under fatigue ; that now, when 
his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of an 
incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to 
retire ; nor was lie so fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in 
an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, 
or to render them happy ; that instead of a sovereign worn out 
with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the 
prime of life, accustomed ah'eady to govern, and who added to the 
vigour of youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years ; 
that if, during the course of a long administration, he had com- 
mitted any material error in government, or if, under the pressure 
of so many and gi-eat affairs, and amidst the attention which he 
had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or in- 
jured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; 
that, for his pait, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their 
fidelity and etttachmcRtj and would carry the remembrance of it 
sdong with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest conso- 
lation, as well as the best reward for all his services ; and in his 
last prayei-s to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes 
for their welfare. 

10. Then turning tcvwards PhiJ ip, who fell on his knees and kissed 
liis father's hand, "If," says he, "I had left you, by my death, 
tliis rich inheritance^ to whtch 1 have made such large additions, 
«ome regani would have been justly due to my memory on that 
account ; but now, ^hen I voluntarily resign to you what I might 
have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions 
of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense ; and 
shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and 
your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of 
your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous 
administration, to Justify the extraordinary proof which I give this 
day of my paternal aSection, and to demonstrate that you are wor- 
thy of the confidence which I repose in you. ' Preserve an invio- 
lable regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity ; 
let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not 
on the rights and privileges of your people ; and if the time shall 
ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private 
life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you 
can resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as I give 
up mine to you." 

11. As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his sub- 
jects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhaust- 
ed and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraordinary an effort. 
Puring his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears ; some 
from admimtion of his magnanimity; others softened by the ex- 
pressions of tendeniess towards his son, and of love to his people ; 
and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sove- 
reign, who had distmguished the Netherlands, his native country, 
with paKJcwlar mai'ks of \m i-egaxxl and attachment. 



Chap. 9. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. J37 

' SECTION XXVII. 
The same subject continued, 

1. A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Netherlands, 
Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial 
equally pompous, resigned to his son the crov/ns of Spain, with all 
the territories depending on them, both in the old and in the new 
world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved nothing, for him- 
self, but an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray 
the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts 
of beneficence and charity. 

2. Nothing now remained to detain him fix^m that retreat for 
which he languished. Every thing having been prepared some 
time'for his voyage, he set cut for Zuitburgh in Zealand, where 
the fleet had orders to rendezvous. In his way thither, he passed 
through Ghent: and after stopping there a few days, to indulge 
that tender and pleasing melancholy, vv^hich arises in the mind of 
every man in the decline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, 
and viewing the scenes and objects familiar to him in his early 
youth, he pursued his journey, accompanied by his son Philip, 
nis daughter the arch-duchess, his sisters the dowager queens of 
France and Hungary, Maximilian his son-in-law, and a numerous 
retinue of the Flemish nobility. Before he v/ent on board, he dis- 
missed them, with marks of his a,ttention or regard ; and taking 
leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who embraced 
his son for the last time, ha set sail under convoy of a large fleet 
of Spanish, Flemish, and English ships. 

3. His voyage was prosperous and agreeable; and he arrived 
at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left Zealand. 
As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the ground ; and con- 
sidering himself now as dead to the world, he kissed the earth, 
and said, '' Naked came I out of my mother's \\K)mb, and naked 
I now return to thee, thou common mother of mankind. " From 
Laredo he proceeded to Valladolid, There he took a last and 
tender leave of his two sisters ; whom he would not permit to ac- 
company him to his solitude, though they entreated it with tears : 
not only that they might have the consolation of contributing, by 
their attendance and care, to mitigate or to sooth his sufferings, 
but that they might reap instruction and benefit, by joining with 
him in those pious exercises, to which he had consecrated the re- 
mainder of Ills days, 

4. From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazencia in Es- 
tremadura. He had passed through that city a great many years 
before ; and having been struck at that tinie v/ith the delightful 
situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belonging to the order of 
St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that place, he had then 
observed to some of his attendants, that this vv'us a spot to which 
Dioclesian might have retired with pleasure. The impression had 
remained so strong on his mind, that he pitched upon it as the 
place of his retreat. 

5. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small 
brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. 
From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the 

M 2 



138 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1 

climate, it \s'^ esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation 
in Spain. 

6. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an archi- 
tect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his ac- 
commodation ; but he gave strict orders that the style of the build- 
ing should be such as suited his present station, rather than his 
fofmer dignity. It consisted only of^six rooms, four of them in the 
form of friars cells, with naked walls; the other two, each twenty 
feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished in the 
most simple manner. They v/ere all on a level with the ground ; 
with a doi3r on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself 
had given the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which 
he proposed to cultivate with his own hands. On the other side, 
they communicated with the chapel of tlie monastery, in whicli 
lie was to perform hb devotions. 

7. Into tiiis humble retreat, hardly sufRcient for the comfortable 
accommodation of a privates gentleman, did Charles enter, with 
twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, 
his graadewrj his anmition, tog<ither with all tliose vast projects, 
whicn> during half a century^ had alarmed and agitated turope ; 
filling evciy kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, 
and the dixiad of being subjected to his power. 

8. In this retirement, Charles formed such a plan of life for 
himself, as woijild have suited the condition of a private person of a 
moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain; his domestics few; 
his intercourse with them familiar; all the cumbersome and cere- 
monious forms of attendance on his person were entirely abolish- 
ed, as destructive of that social ease and tranq^uillity, which lie 
courted, in order to sooth the remainder of his days. As the 
mildness of the clim^ate, together v/ith his deliverance from the 
burdens and cares of government, procured him, at first, a con- 
siderable remission from the acute pains with which he had been 
long tormented, he enjoyed, perhaps, more complete satisfaction 
in this humble solitude, than all his grandeur had ever yielded 
him, 

9. The ambitious thoughts and projects which had so long en- 
grossed and disquieted him, were quite effaced from his mind. Far 
from taking any part in the political transactions of the princes of 
Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any inquiiy concern- 
ing them ; and he seemed to view the busy scene which he had 
abandoned, with all tlie contempt and indifference arising from his 
thoi-ough experience of its vanity, as well as from the pleasing 
reikd:icai of having disentangled himself from its cares. 

DR. ROBERTSON. 



PART II. 

PIECES /A- POETRY. 

CHAPTER L 

SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. 
SECTION I. 

SHORT AND EASY SP:NTENCES. 

Education. 
'Tis education forms the common mind ; 
Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd. 

Candour, 
With pleasure let us own our errors past : 
And make each day a critic on the last. 

Reflection, 
A soul without reflection, like a pile 
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. 

Secret Firtiie. 
The private path, the secret acts of men. 
If noble, far the noblest of their lives. 

JSTecessaTy knowledge easily attained. 
Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, 
Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field ; 
And bids all welcome to the vital feast. 

Disafifiointment. 
Disappointment lurks in many a prize. 
As bees in flow'rs ; and stings us with success. 

Virtuous elevation. 
The mind that would be happy, must be great ; 
Great m its wishes ; great in its surveys. 
Extended views a narrow mind extend. 
JsTatural and fanciful life. 
Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor ; 
Who lives to fancy, never can be rich ; 

Charity. 
In faith and hope the world will disagree ; 
But all mankind's concern is charity. 

The prize of virtue. 
What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy. 
The soul's c^m sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, 
Is virtue's prize. 

Sense and tnodesty connected. 
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks ; 
It still looks home, and short excursions makes 
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. 



^ 



jyOTE, — In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited a considerable 
variety of poetical construction, for the young reader's preparatory exercise. 



140 THE ENGLISH READER. Part% 

Moral dmdjilinc salutai^, 
Heav'n gives us friends to bless the 'present scene ; 
Resumes them to prepare us for the next. 
All evils natural are moral goods ; 
AH discipline, indulgence, on the v/hole. 

Present blessings u7ide7^aluccL 
Like birds, whose beauties lanp;uish, half conceal'd, 
Till, mounted on the wing, then^ glossy plumes 
Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold, 
How blessings brighten as they take their iiight ! 

Hofie. 
Hope, of all passions most befriends us herc ; 
Passions of prouder name befriend us less. 
Joy has her tears, and transport has her death ; 
Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong, 
Man's heart, at once, inspirits and serenes, 
Hafipmess modest and tranquil. 

■■ — Never man was truly blest, 

But it compos'd, and gave hiifi such a cast 
As folly might mistake for want of joy : 
A cast unlike the triumph of the proud \ 
A modest aspect, aiid a smile at heart. 

True greatness. 
Who noble ends by nol^le' means obtains, 
Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains. 
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. 

The tear of symjiathy. 
No radiant pearl, which crested fortune wears. 
No gem, that tv/inkling hangs from beauty's eans. 
Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn. 
Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn, 
Shine with such lustre, as the tear that break.s. 
For others' wo, down Virtue's manly cheeks. 

SECTION JL 

VERSES IN WHICH THE LINES ARE OF DIFFERENT LENGTIL 

Bliss of celestial origin. 
Restless mortah toil for nought; 
Bliss in vain from earth is sought ; 
Bhss, a native of the sky, 
Never wanders. Mortals, try ; 
There you cannot seek in vain ', ^ 

For to seek her is to gain. 

The passions. 
The passions are a num'rous crowd, 
Imperious, positive, and loud. 
Curb these licentious sons of strife ; 
Hence chiefly rise the storms of life : 
If they grow mutinous, and rave. 
They are thy masters, thou their slave. 

Trust in Providence recommended. 
*Tis Providence alone secures, 
In ev'ry change^ both mirxc and yours. 



amp, 1. SELECT SENTENCES, ace 141 

Safety consists not in escajpe 
From dangers of a frightlnl shape : 
An earthquake may be l^id to spare 
The man that's strangled by a hair. 
Fate steals along with silent tread, 
Found oft'nest in what least we dread ; 
Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 

EfiitapJi. 
How lov'd, how valu'd once, avails thee not. 
To whom related, or by whom begot : 
A heap of dust alone remains of thee ; 
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be. 

Fame. 
All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; 
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart. 
One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs 
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas ; 
And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels, 
Than Cxsar with a senate at his heels. 

Virtue the guardian of youth, 
Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts. 
Gay as the morn ; briglit glows the vernal sky, 
Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course. 
Safe glides his little bark along the shore. 
Where Virtue takes her stand : but if too far 
He launches forth beyond chscretion's mark. 
Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar. 
Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. 

Sunrise. 
But yonder comes the pov/erful king of day, 
Kejoicing in the, east. The less'ning cloud. 
The kindling azure, and the mxountain's brow. 
Ilium 'd v/ith fluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all 
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and coloured air. 
He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; 
And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays 
On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and wand'ring streams. 
High gleaming from afan 

Self- gov em merit. 
May I govern my passions with absolute sway ; 
And grow wiser and better as life wears away. 

Shejiherd. 
On a mountain, stretch'd beneath a hoary willow, 
•Lay a shepherd swain, and view'd the rolling billow. 



142 THE ENGLISH READER. Part % 

SECTION III. 

VERSES CONTAINING EXCLAMATIONS, INTERS OGATIONS, AND 

PARENTHESES. 

Comfietence. 
A COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy: 
Oh! be content, where Heav'n caii give no more ! 

Reflection essential to hajijiiness. 
Much joy not only speaks small happiness. 
But happiness that shortly must expire. 
Can joy unbottom'd in reflection, stand ? 
And, ill a tempest, can reflection live ? 

Frienchhiji, 
Can gold gain friendship ? Impudence of hope ! 
■ As well mere man an angel might beget. 
I^ove, and love only, is tlie loan for love. 
liOrenzo ! pride repress ; nor hope to nnd 
A friend, but wliat has found a friend in thee. 
All like tlic purchase ; fev/ the price will pay : 
And this makes friends such miracles below.' 

Patience. 
Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day 
(Live till to-morrow) v/ill have passed away. 
Luxury, 

-— ^—-O luxury ! 

Bane of elated life, of aHluent stat:es, ^ , 

What dreary change, v/ hat ruin is not thine ! 

How doth thv bowl intoxicate the mind ! 

To the soft en .ranee of thy rosy cave. 

How dost thou lure the fortunate and great ! 

Dreadful attraction ! 

Firtiious activity. 
Seize, mortals ! seize the transient hour; 
Improve each moment as it Hies : 
Life's a short summer—man a ilow'r;^ 
He dies — Alas!— ho v/ soon he dies ! 

The source of hajipiness. 
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense. 
Lie in three words,, health, peace, and competence : 
But health consists ^vitli temperance alone ; 
And peace, O virtue ! peace is all thy own. 

Placid emotion. 
Who can forbear to smile with nature ? Can 
The stormy passions in the bosom roll, 
While ev'ry gale is peace, and ev'ry grove 
Is melody t 

SolltudeJ^ 
O sacred solitude ; divine retreat ! 
Choice of tlie prudent ! envy of the great ? 
By thy pure stream, or in thy waviiig shade, 
We couit fair v/isdoin, thnt celestial maid : 
« By solitude here is mvAwt, w t.:'m}>;jrrnT sc<:]r.Gion from the workL 



Chafi. 1. SELECT SENTENCES, &c 143 

The genuine offspring of her iov'cl embrace, 
(Strangers on earth,) arc mnoccnce and peace. 
There from the ways ot men laid safe ashore. 
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar ; 
There, bless'd with health, with biis'ness unperplex'd. 
This life we relish, and ensure the next. 

Presume 7iot on to-morrow. 
In human hearts what bolder thouglits can rise, 
Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn ? 
Where is to-mon'ow ? In another world. 
For numbers this is certain ; the reverse 
Is sure to none. 

Dum vivimus vivamus. — Whiht loe live^ lei us live. 
** Live, while you live," the epicure would say, 
** And seize the pleasures of the present day.'^ 
•* Live, while you live," the sacred preacher cries ; 
** And fjive to 'God each moment as it flies," 
Lord ! m my views, let both united be ; 
I live in pleasure, when I live to thee ! Doddridge 

SECTION IV, 

VERSES IN VARIOUS FORMS. 

T.he security of Virtue, 

Let coward guilt, with pallid fear. 

To shelt'ring caverns fly. 
And justly dread the vengeful fate. 

That thunders through the sky. 
Protected by that hand, v/hose law. 

The threat'ning storms obey, 
Intrepid virtue smiles secure. 

As in the blaze of day. 

Resignation, 
And Oh ! Jby error's force subdu'd, 

Since oft my stubborn will 
Prepost'rous shuns the latent good. 

And grasps the specious ill. 
Not to my wish, but to my want, 

Do thou thy gifts apply ; 
Unask'd, what good thou knowest grant ; 

What ill, though ask'd, deny. 

Compassion, 
I have found out a gift for my fair ; 

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; 
But let me that plunder forbear ! 

She v/ill say 'tis a barbarous deed. 
For he ne'er can be tme, she averr'd, ^ 

Who can rob a poor bird of its young : 
And I lov'd her the more, when I lieard 

Such tenderness fall fi^om her tongue. 



144 THE ENGLISH READER. Fart Z. 

Rjiitajilu 
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
Fah' science frown'd not on his humble bhth. 

And melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to mis'ry ail fie had — a tear ; 

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a frie));!. 
No further seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Joy and 8orro%v connectccL 
Still, where rosy pleasure leads. 
See a kindred grief pursue ; 
Behind the steps that mis'ry treads. 
Approaching comforts view. 
The hues of bliss more brightly glow, 
Chastis'd by sable tints of v/o ; 
And blended form, with artful strife. 
The strength and harmony of life. 

The golden mean. 
He that holds fast the golden mean, ( 

And lives contentedly between 

The little and the great, 
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 

Imbitt'ring all his state. 
The tallest pines feel most the pow'r 
Of wint'ry blast ; the loftiest tow'r 

Comes heaviest to the ground. 
The bolts that spare the mountain's side. 
His cloud-capt eminence divide ; 

And spread the ruin round. 

Moderate -vieiJos and aims recommended. 
With passions umiiffled, untainted with pride. 

By reason my life let me square ; 
The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied ; 

And the rest are but folly and care. 
How vainly, through infinite trouble and strife. 

The many their labours employ !-. 
Since all that is truly delightful in life. 

Is what all, if they please, may enjoy. 

Attachment to life. 

The tree of deepest root is found. 

Least willing still to quit the ground : 
HTwas therefore said, by ancient sages. 
That love of life increas'd with years, 

So much, that in our later stages. 

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
Tlxe greatest love of life appears. 



<:hatu 1. SELECT SENTEMCES, 5cc 145 

Virtue's address to {ileasure,* 
Vast happiness enjoy thy gay aUies ! 

A youth of folhes, an old age of cares ; 
Young yet enervate, old yet never wise. 

Vice wastes their vigour, and theh^ mind impairs. 
Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, 

Resersdng woes for age, their prime they spend; 
All wretched, hopeless^ in the evil days. 

With soiTow to the verge of life they tend. 
Griev'd with the present, of the past asham'd. 
They live and are despis'd \ they die, no more are nam'd. 

SECTION V. 

VERSES IN WHICH SOUND CORRESPONDS TO SIGNIFICATION 

Smooth and rough verse. 
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows. 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
The hoarse rough verse should like the toiTent roar. 

Slonv motion iiiutated. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast ^veiglit to throw. 
The line too labours, and the words move slow. 

Swift ajid easy motion. 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Felling trees in a wood. 
Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes ; 
On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks 
Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown : 
Then rustling, crackling,' crashing, thunder down. 

Sound of a bow-string. 

The string let fly 

Twang'd short and shai^, like the shrill swallow's C17 

The fiheasa-at. 
See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs. 
And mounts exulting on triumphant v/ings. 

Scijlla and Charijbdis. 
Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, 
And here Charybdis fills the deep v/ith stonns. 
When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves. 
The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. 

Boisterous and gentle sounds. 
Two craggy rocks projecting to the main. 
The roaring winds tempestuous rage restrain : 
Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide ; 
And ships secure witliout their halsers ride, 

* Sensual Dieasure. 
N^ 



146 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2 

Laborious and hnfietuous motion. 
With many a weary step, and many a groan. 
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone : 
Tne huge round stone resulting with a bound. 
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground. 

Regular and dovj movement* 
First march the heavy mules securely slor 
O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. 

Motion dow and difficult 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its siOw length along. 

ji rock torn from the bronv of a mountain. 
Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain. 
Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. 

Extent and -violence of the ivavcs. 
The waves behind impel the waves before. 
Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. 

Pensive 7iumbers. 
In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heav'nly pensive contemplation dwells. 
And ever-musing melancholy reigns. 

Battle, V • 

— Arms on armour, clashing, bray'd 

Horrible discord ; and the madding wheels 
Of brazen fury rag*d, 

Sound i?mtating reluctance. 
For who, to dumb forgethilness a prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd ; 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

SECTION VI. 

PARAGRAPHS OF GREATER LENGTH. 

Connubial affection. 

The love that cheers life's latest stage. 
Proof against sickness and old age, 
Preserv'd by virtue from declension. 
Becomes not weary of attention : 
But lives, when that exterior grace. 
Which first inspir'd the flame, decays. 
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind. 
To faults compassionate, or blind ; 
And will with sympathy endure 
Those evils it would gladly cure. 
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
Proves that the heart is none of his. 
Or soon expels him if it is. 



':hati. 1. SELECT SENTENCES, ace 147 

Swarms of flying insects. 
Thick in yon stream of light a thousand ways. 
Upward and downward, thwarting and convolv'd. 
The quiv'ring nations sport ; till tempest- wing'd. 
Fierce winter sweeps them from the face of day. 
Ev'n so, luxurious men, unheeding, pass 
An idle summer life, in fortune's shme, 
A season's glitter ! Thus they flutter on. 
From toy to toy, from vanity to vice ; 
Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes 
Behind, and strikes them from the book of life. 

Beneficence its oivn reward. 
My fortune (for I'll mention all. 
And more than you dare tell) is small ; 
Yet ev'ry fiiend partakes my store. 
And want goes smiling from my door. 
Will forty shillings warm the breast 
Of worth or industry distress'd 1 
This sum I cheerfully impart ; 
'Tis fourscore pleasures to my heart. 
And you may make, by means like these. 
Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 
'Tis tme, my little purse grows light ; 
But then I sleep so sweet at night ! 
This grand specific will prevaU, 
When all the doctor's opiates fail. 

Virtue the best treasure. 
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul. 
Is the best gift of Heav'n : a happiness 
That, even above the smiles and frowns of fate. 
Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth 
That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands 
Can be transferr'd. It is the only good 
Man justly boasts of, or can call his own. 
Riches are oft by guilt and baseness eam'd. 
But for one end, one much-ne2:lected use, 
I Are riches worth our care ; (for nature's wants 
Are few, and without opulence supplied ;) 
This noble end is to produce the soul ; 
To show the virtues in their fairest light ; 
And make humanity the minister 
Of bounteous Providence. 

Contemplation, 
As yet 'tis midnight deep. The weary clouds, 
Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. 
Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep. 
Let me associate with the serious night. 
And contemplation her sedate compeer ; 
Let me shake off th' intrusive cares of day. 
And lay the meddling senses all aside. 

WJiere now, ye lying vanities of life ! 
Ye ever tempting, ever cheating; train ! 



148 THE ENGLISH READER. Fart Z 

Where are you now ? and what is your amount ? 
Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. 
Sad, sick'ning thought ! And yet, dehided man, 
A scene of crude disjointed visions past, 
And broken slumbers, rises still resolv'd. 
With new fiush'd hopes, to run the giddy round. 

Pleasure of piety. 
A Deity believ'd, is joy begim ; 
A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd ; 
A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. 
Each branch of piety delight inspires : 
Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next. 
O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ; 
Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
I'hat joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still ; 
Pray'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a stream 
Of glory, on the consecrated hour 
Of man in audience with the Deity. 

CHAPTER H. 

NARRATIVE PIECES. 
SECTION I. 

The bears and the bees, 

1. As two young bears, in wanton mood. 
Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood, 
Came where th' industrious bees had stor'd. 
In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; 
O'erjoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste. 
Luxurious on the rich repast. 

Alarm'd at this, the little crew 
About their ears vindictive fiew. 

2. The beasts, unable to sustain 
Th' unequal combat, quit the plain ; 
Half-blind with I'age, and mad with pain. 
Their native shelter they regain ; 
There sit, and nov/, discreeter grown. 
Too late their rashness they bemoan ; 
And this by dear experience gain. 
That pleasure's ever bought witli pain. 

3. So when the gilded baits of vice 
Are plac'd before our longing eyes. 
With greedy haste we snatch our fill. 
And swallow down the latent ill : 
But when experience opes our eyes, 
Away the fancied pleasure flies. 
It flies, but oh ! too late we find. 
It leaves a real sting behind. merrick. 



Chafi. 2. NARRATIVE PIECES. 149 

SECTION 11, 

The nightingale and the glow-worm. 

1. A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long 
Had cheer'd the village with his song, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended. 
Nor yet when eventide was ended. 
Began to feel, as well he might. 
The keen demands of appetite ; 
When, looking eagerly around. 

He spied far off, upon the ground, 
A something shining in the dark. 
And knew the glow-worm by his spark. 
So, stooping down from hawthorn top. 
He thought to put him in his crop. 

2. The worm, aware of his intent. 
Harangued him thus, right eloquent — 

* Did you admire my lamp,' quoth ne, 

* As much as I your minstrelsy. 
You would abhor to do me wrong. 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 'twas the self-same pow'r divine. 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
That you with music, I with light. 
Might beautify and cheer the night. ' 

3. The songster heard his short oration. 
And, warbling out his approbation, 
Releas'd him, as my stoiy tells. 
And found a vsupper somewhere else. 
Hence, jarring sectaries may learn 
Their real int'rest to discern ; 

That brother should not war with brother, 
a\nd woriy and devour each other : 
But sing and shine by sweet consent. 
Till life's poor transient night is spent ; 
Respecting, in each other's case. 
The gifts of nature and of grace. 

4. Those Christians best deserv^e the laame. 
Who studiously make peace their aim : 
Peace, both the duty and the prize 

Of him that creeps, and him that flies. cowper, 

SECTION HI. 

The trials of virtue^ 

1, Plac'd on the verge of youth, my mind 

Life's op'ning scene survey'd : 
I view'd its ills of various kind, 
Afflicted and afraid. 

2. But chief my fear the dangers mov'd. 

That virtue's path enclose : 
My heart the wise pursuit approved ; 
But O, what toils oppose! 



150 . THE ENGLISH READER. 

3. For see, ah see ! while yet her ways 

With doubtful step I tread, 

A hostile world its terrors raise. 

Its snares delusive spread. 

4. O how shall I, with heart prepared, 

Those terrors learn to meet ? 
How, from the thousand snares to guard 
My unexperienc'd feet ? 

5. As thus I mus'd, oppressive sleep 

Soft o'er my temples drew 
Oblivion's veil, — ^The wat'ry deep. 
An object strange and new, 

6. Before me rose : on the wide shore 

Observant as I stood. 
The gathering storms around me roar 
And heave the boiling flood. 

7. Near and more near the billows rise ; 

Ev'n now my steps they lave; 
And death to my affrighted eyes 
Approach'd in every wave, 

8. What hope, or whither to retreat ! 

Each nerve at once unstrung ; 
Chill fear had fetter'd fast my feet. 
And chain'd my speechless tongue. 

9. I felt my heart within me die ; 

When sudden to mine ear 
A voice, descending from on high, 
Reprov'd my erring fear. 

10. ** What tho' the swelling surge thou see 

Impatient to devour ; 
Rest, mortal, rest on God's decree. 
And thankful own his pow'r. 

11. Know, when he bade the deep appear, 

* Thus far,' th' Almighty said, 

' Thus far, no farther, rage ; and here 

* Let thy proud waves be stay'd.' " 

12. I heard ; and lo ! at once controU'd, 

The waves, in wild retreat, 
Back on themselves reluctant roll'd. 
And murm'ring left my feet. 

13. Deeps to assembling deeps in vain 

Once more the signal gave : 
The shores the rushing weight sustain. 
And check th' usurping wave. 

14. Convinc'd, in nature's volume wise. 

The imag'd truth I read ; 
And sudden from my waking eyes 
Th' instructive vision fled. 

15. Then why thus heavy, O my soul! 

Say why, distmstful still. 



Fart 2. 



h. 2. NARRATIVE PIECES. 151 

Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll 
O'er scenes of future ill ? 

16. Let faith suppress each rising fear. 

Each anxious doubt exclude : 
Thy Maker's will has plac'd thee here, 
A Maker wise and good ! 

17. He to thy ev'iy trial knows 

Its just restraint to give ; 
Attentive to behold thy woes. 
And faithful to relieve. 

18. Then why thus hea^y, O my soul ! 

Say why, distrustful still. 
Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll 
O'er scenes of future ill ? 

19. Tho' gi'iefs unnumber'd throng thee round, 

Stiirin thy God confide, 
WHiose finger marks the seas their bound. 
And curbs the headlong tide. merrick, 

SECTION IV. 

The youth and tJie jihilosopher, 

1. A Grecian youth of talents rare. 
Whom Plato's philosophic care 
Had form'd for virtue's nobler viev/. 
By precept and example too, 
Vvould often boast his matchless skill. 
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ; 
And as he pass'd the gazing throng, 
With gi'aceful ease, and smack'd the thong. 
The idiot wonder they express'd, 

Was praise and transpoit to his breast. 

2. At length, quite vain, he needs would show 
His master what his art could do ; 

And bade his slaves the chariot lead 
To Academus' sacred shade. 
The trembling gi'ove confess'd its fright. 
The wood-nymplis started at the sight ; 
The muses drop the learned lyre. 
And to their inmost sha.des retire. 

3. Howe'er, the youth, with forward air ; 
Bows to the sage, and moimts the car. 
The lash resounds, the coursers spring. 
The chariot marks the rolling ring ; 
And gath'ring crowds, with eager eyes. 
And shouts, pursue him as he flies. 

4. Triumphant to the goal return'd. 
With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd ; 
And now along th' indented ]}lain 
The self-same track he marks again. 
Pursues with care the nice desigii;. 
Nor ever deviates from the line. 



152 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd ; 
The youths with emulation glow'd ; 
Ev'n bearded sages hail'd the boy ; 
And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. 

5. For he, deep-judging sage, beheld 
With pain the triumphs of the field : 
And when the charioteer drew nigh. 

And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye, 
"Alas! unhappy youth," he cryM, 
"Expect no praise from me," (and sigh'd.) 

6. ** With indignation I survey 

Such skill and judgment thrown away : 

The time profusely squander'd there, 

On vulgar arts beneath thy care. 

If well employ'd, at less expense. 

Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ; 

And rais d thee from a coachman's fate 

To govern men, and guide the state." whiteheai>. 

SECTION V. 

Discourse between Adam and Eve^ retiring to rest, 

1. Now came still ev'ning on, and twDight gray 
Had in her sober liv'ry all things clad. 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird. 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale. 
She all night long her am'rous descant smig : 
Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament 
With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon. 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length. 
Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light. 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

2. When Adam thus to Eve ; " Fair consort, th' hour 
Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest. 

Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men 
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep. 
Now falling with soft slumb'rous weight, inclines 
Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long 
Rove idle unemploy'd, and less need rest : 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity. 
And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; 
While other animals unactive range. 
And of their doings God takes no account. 

3. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
And at our pleasant labour; to reform 
Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, 
Gur walk at noon, with branches overgi'own. 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. 



Chafi. % NARRATIVE PIECES. 15% 

Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth, 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. 
Mean while, as nature w^ills, niglit bids us rest. " 

4. To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adom'd : 
" My author and disposer, what thou bidst, 
Unargued I obey ; so God ordains. 

With thee conversing I forget all time ; 
All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun 
When fii-st on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r, 
Glist'ring wdth dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
After sort show'i's ; and sw^eet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent nightj 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon. 
And these the gems of heav'n, her stariy train : 

5. But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
On this delightful land; nor herb, fiTiit, liow'r, 
Glist'ring with dew^ ; nor fragrance after show'rs : 
Nor gi'ateful evening mild ; nor silent night 
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon. 
Or glitt'ring star-light, — v^^ithout thee is sw^eet. 
But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
This glorious sight, wdien sleep hath shut all eyes ?" 

6. To whom our gen'ral ancestor reply'd : 

" Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve, 
These have their course to finish round the earth. 
By morrow ev'ning; and from land to land. 
In order, though to nations yet unborn, 
Minist'ring hght prepar'd, they set and rise ; 
Lest total darkness should by night regain 
Her old possession, and extinguish life 
In nature and all things ; which these sofl fires 
Not only enlighten, but, wdth kindly heat 
Ot various iniiuence, foment and warm, 
Temper or nourish ; or in part shed down 
Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 

7. These then, though unbeheld in deep of night. 
Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none. 
That heav'n would w^ant spectators, God want pmise ; 
Millions of spiritual creatures w^alk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleef 

AU these w^ith ceaseless praise his works behold. 
Both day and night. How often, from the steep :■ 
Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
Celestial voices to the midrxight air, 
Sole, or responsive each to others' note. 
Singing their great Creator ? Oft in bands^ 



154 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk 
With heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds. 
In all harmonic number join'd, their songs 
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n." 

8. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd 
On to their blissful bow'r. '- 



-There arriv'd, both stood, 



Both turn'd ; and under open sky ador'd 

The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n. 

Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent gldje. 

And starry pole. *« Thou also mads't the night. 

Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day. 

Which we, in our appointed work employ'd. 

Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help. 

And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 

Ordain'd by thee ; and this delicious place 

For us too large, where thy abundance wants 

Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. 

But thou hast promis'd from us two a race. 

To fill tlie earth, who shall with us extol 

Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake. 

And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep," milton. 

SECTION VI. 

Religion and Death, 

1. Lo ! a form divinely bright 
Descends, and bursts upon my sight; 
A seraph of illustrious birtii ! 
(Religion was her name on earth ;) 
Supremely sweet her radiant face. 
And blooiiiing with celestial grace ! 
Three shining cherubs form'd her train, 
Wav*d their light wings, and reach'd the plain: 
Faith, with sublime and piercing eye. 

And pinions flutt'ring for the sky ; 
Here Hope, that smiling angel stands. 
And golden anchors grace her hands ; 
There Charity in robes of white. 
Fairest and fav'rite maid of light. 

2. The seraph spoke — " 'Tis reason's part 
To govern and to guard the heart ; 

To lull the wayward soul to rest. 
When hopes and fears distract the breast. 
Reason may calm this doubtful strife. 
And steer thy bark through various life : 
But when the storms of death are nigh. 
And midnight darkness veils the sky. 
Shall Reason then direct thy sail. 
Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale ? 
Stranger, this skill alone is mine. 
Skill that transcends his scanty line." 



Chafi, 2. NARRATIVE PIECES. 15> 

3. ** Revere thyself — ^thou'rt near allied 
To angels on thy better side. 

How various e'er their ranks or kinds, 

Angels are but unbodied minds : 

When the partition-walls decay, 

Men emerge angels from their clay. 

Yes, when the frailer body dies. 

The soul asserts her kindred skies. 

But minds, though sprung from heav'nly race. 

Must fii-st be tutor'd for the place; 

The joys above are understood, 

And relish'd only by the good. 

Who shall assume this guardian care ; 

Who shall secure their birth-right there .^ 

Souls are my charge — to me 'tis giv'n 

To train them for their native heav'n." 

4. ** Know then — who bow the early knee, 
And give the willing heart to me ; 
Who wisely, when Temptation waits, 
Elude her frauds, and spurn her baits ; 
Who dare to own my injur 'd cause. 
Though fools deride my sacred laws ; 
Or scorn to deviate to the wrong, 
Though persecution lifts her thong ; 
Though all the sons of hell conspire 
To I'aise the stake and light the fire ; 
Know, that for such superior souls. 
There lies a bhss beyond the poles : 
Where spirits shine with purer ray. 
And brighten to meridian day ; 

Where love, where boundless fiiendship rules ; 
(No friends that change, no love that cools ;) 
Where rising floods of knowledge roll. 
And pour, and pour upon the soul !" 

5. " But Where's the passage to the skies ? — 
The road through death's black valley lies. 
Nay, do not shudder at my tale ; 

Th'o' dark the shades, yet safe the vale. 
This path the best of men have trod ; 
And who'd decline the road to God ? 
Oh ! 'tis a glorious boon to die ! 
This favour can't be priz'd too high." 

6. \yhile thus she spoke, my looks express'd 
The raptures kindling in my breast ; 

Mv soul a fix'd attention gave ; 
When the stern monarch of the grave. 
With haughty strides approach'd : — amaz'd 
I stood, and trembled as \ gaz'd. 
The seraph calm'd each anxious fear^ 
And kmdly wip'd the falling tear ; 
Then hasten'd with expanded wing 
To meet the pale, terrific king. 



156 



THE ENGLISH READER. 



Part 2 



But now what milder scenes arise ! 

The tyrant drops his hostile guise ; 

He seems a youth divinely fair. 

In graceful ringlets waves his hair ; 

His wings their whit'ning plumes display. 

His burnish'd plumes reflect the day ; 

Light flows his shining azure vest, 

And all the angel stands confess'd. 

I view'd the change with sweet surprise ; 

And, Oh ! I panted for the skies : 

Thank'd heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath ; 

And triumph'd in the thoughts of death. cotton. 



CHAPTER III. 

DIDACTIC PIECES. 
SECTION L 

llie vamUj of wealth. 

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap, 

With av'rice painful vigils keep ; 

Still unenjoy'd the present store. 

Still endless sighs are breathed for more. 

Oh ! quit the shadow, catch the prize. 

Which not all India's treasure buys ! 

To purchase heav'n has gold the pow'r ? 

Can, gold remove the mortal hour ? 

In life can love be bought with gold ? 

Are friendship's pleasures to be sold ? 

No—all that's worth a. wish — a thought, 

Fair virtue gives unbribM, unbought. 

Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind ; 

Let nobler views engage thy mind. dr. joiinson. 

SECTION IL 
JYothing formed i?i vain. 
Let no presuming impious railer tax 
Creative wisdom ; as if aught was form'd 
In vain, or not for admirable ends. ' 

Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce 
His works unwise, of which the smallest part 
Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind ? 
As if, upon a fidl-proportion'd dome, 
On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art ! 
A critic-fly, whose feeble ray sca^xe spreads 
An inch around, with blind presumption bold. 
Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. 
And lives the man, whose univefi**,.? eye 
Has swept at once th' unbounded Itieme of tilings; 
Mark'd their dependence so, mid Arm accord 
As with unfalt'ring accent to conclude, 
That this availeth noui;,i)t > Has any seen 



ifu 3. DIDACTIC PIECES. 157 

The mighty chain of beings, less'ning down 

From infinite perfection, to the brink 

Of dreary notning, desolate abyss ! 

From which astonish'd, thought, recoiling, turns ? 

Till then alone let zealous praise ascond. 

And hymns of holy wonder, to that power. 

Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our minds. 

As on our smiling eyes his servant sun. thomso»# 

SECTION III. 

On fitide, 

1. Of all the causes, which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind. 
What the weak head with strongest bias rules. 
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 
Whatever nature has in worth deny'd, 

She gives in large recruits of needful pride ! 
For, as in bodies, thus m souls, we find 
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind. 
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence. 
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 

2. If once right reason drives that cloud away. 
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 
Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, 
Make use of ev'ry friend — and ev'ry foe, 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring . 
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain ; 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 

3. Fir'd at first sight with what the muse impaits, 
In fearless youth v/e tempt the heights of arts, 
W^ile, from the bounded level of our mind. 
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 
But more advanc'd, behold, with strange surprise, 
New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So, pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try. 
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 
Th' eternal snows appear already past. 
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 
But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey 
The growing laboui^ of the lengthen'd way ; 
Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes ; 
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise, pope. 

SECTION IV. 

Cruelty to brutes censured, 
I, I WOULD not enter on my fist of friends, 

(Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine seiisc^ 
Yet wanting sensibility,) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
An inadvertent step may crush the snail. 
That crawls at evening in the pubhc path ; 
But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, 
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live^ 
O 



I' 



158 j,HE ENGLISH READER. Part% 

2, The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. 
And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes 
A visitor unwelcome into scenes 
<^ Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove. 
The chamber, or refectory, may die. 
A necessary act incurs no blame. 
Not so, when held within their proper bounds^ 
And ffuiltless of offence they range the air. 
Or toke their pastime in the spacious field : 
There they are privileged. And he that hunts 
Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong ; 
Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm. 
Who when she form'd, design'd them an abode. 

S. The sum is this : if man's convenience, health. 
Or safety, interefere, his rights and claims. 
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 
Else they are all — ^the meanest things that are. 
As free to live and to enjoy that life, 
As God was free to form them at the first. 
Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made them all, 

4. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
To love it too. The spring time of our years 
Is soon dishonour'd and defil'd, in most, 
By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
To check them. But, alas 1 none sooner shoots. 
If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, 
Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 

B, Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 
And righteous limitation of its act. 
By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man : 
And he that shows none, being ripe in years. 
And conscious of the outrage he commits, 
Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn. cowper 

SECTION V, 

4fiaraphras€ on the latter part of the 6th chapter of St, Matthew 

1. When my breast labours with oppressive care, 
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear ; 
While all my warring passions are at strife. 
Oh ! let me listen to the words of life ! 
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart, 
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart. 

3. ** Think not, when all your scanty stores afford. 
Is spread at once upon the sparing board ; 
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears. 
While on the roof the howling tempest bears ; 
What farther shall this feeble life sustain. 
And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again. 

3, Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ? 
And the fair body its investing weed ? 
Behold ! and look away your low despair- 
Sec the light tenants of the barren air : 



CM. ^ DIDACTIC PIECES. 159 

4. To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong ; 
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing 9C«g ; 
Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye 

On the least mng that fiits along the sky- 
To him they sing when spring renews the plain ^^^ 
To hinti they cry, in winter's pinching reign ; ' 
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain : 
He hears the gajr, and the distressful call : 
And with uiisparing bounty fills them all. 

5. " Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; 
Observe the various vegetable race : 
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow ; 
Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they 'glow ! 
What regal vestments can with them compare'! 
What king so shining ! or w^hat queen so fair !" 

6. ** If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds | 
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads ; 
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say? 
Is he unwise ? or, are ye less than theyr' Thomson. 

SECTION VI. 

Uie death of a good ?nan a strong mcenttve to virtue^ 

1, The chamber where the good man meets his fate. 
Is jprivileg'd beyond the common walk 
Oi virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n. 
Fly, ye profane ! if notj draw near with aw^ 
Receive the blessing, and adore the chance^ 
That threw m this Bethesda your disease : 
If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure. 

2. For, here, resistless demonstration dwells ; 
A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 
Here tir'd dissimulation drops her mask. 
Thro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene ! 
Here real, and apparent, are the same. 
You see the man ; you see his hold on heav'n. 
If sound his viiiiue, as Philander's sound, 

S. Heav'n waits not the last moment ; owns her friends 

On this side death ; and points them out to men ; 

A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r ! 

To vice, ccmfusion : and to virtue, peace. 

Whatever farce the boastful hero plays. 

Virtue alone has majesty in death ; 

And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns, youns^ 
SECTION VII. 

Reflections on a future state, from a review of nvinter. 
1, 'Tis done ! dread winter spreads his latest glooms, 

And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 

How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 

How dumb the timeml ! Horror wide extends 

His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 

See here thy pictur'd life : pass some few years. 

Thy fiow'ring spring, thy summer's ardent strength. 



160 THE ENGLISH READER. Partt. 

Thy sober autumn fading into age, 

And pale concluding winter comes at last, 

And shuts the scene. 
% Ah! whither now are fled 

Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 

Of happiness? those longings after fame? 

Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? 

Those gay-spent, festive nights r those veering thoughts. 

Lost between good and ill, tiiat shar'd thy life? 
5, All now are vanish'd ! Virtue sole survives. 

Immortal, never-failing friend of man. 

His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 

'Tis come, the glorious mom! the second birth 

Of heaven and earth ! awak'ning nature hears 

The new-creating word ; and starts to life. 

In ev'ry heightened form, from pain and death 

For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 

Involving all, and in a perfect whole 

Uniting as the prospect wider spreads. 

To reason's eye renn'd clears up apace. 
4. Ye vainly wise ! Ye blind presumptuous! now. 

Confounded in the dust, adore that Power, 

And Wisdom oft arraign'd : see now the cause 

Why unassuming worth in secret liv'd. 

And died neglected: why the good man's share 

In life was gall, and bitterness of soul: 

Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd 

In starving solitude ; while luxuiy. 

In palaces lay straining her low thought. 

To form unreal wants : why heav'n-bom truth, 

And moderation fair, wore the red marks 

Of superstition's scourge : why licens'd p^,! 

That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 

Imbitter'd all our bliss, 
3. Ye good distress'd ! 

Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 

Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, 

And what your bounded view which only saw 

A little part, deem'd evil, is no more : 

The storms of wint'ry time will quickly pass. 

And one unbounded spring encircle alL ^ Thomson 

SECTION VIII. 

AdanCa advice to Eve, to avoid temfitation,^ 
J, •* O WOMAN, best are all things as the will. 
Of God ordain'd them ; his creating hand 
Nothing imperfect or deficient left 
*^ Of all that he created, much less man. 
Or aught that might his happy state secure. 
Secure from outward force. " Within himself 
The danger lies, yet lies within his pow'r : 
Against his will he can receive no harm. 
% But God left free the wiU ; for what obeys 
Reason, is free, and reason he made right ; 



Chafi. 3. DIDACTIC PIECES, 161 

But bid her well bev/are, and stiil erect, ^ 
Lest, by some fair appearing good surprised. 
She dictate false, and misinform the will 
To do what God expressly hath forbid.^ 
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins 
That I should mind thee oft : and mind thou me* 

3. Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve. 
Since reason not impossibly may meet 
Some specious object by the foe suborn'd. 
And fall into deception unaware. 

Not keeping strictest watch, as she was wam'd. 
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid 
Were better, and most likely if fi'om me 
Thou sever not j trial v/ill come unsought. 

4, Wouldst thou approve thy constancy ?* approve 
First thy obedience ; th' other who can loiow. 
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest ? 

But if thou think, trial unsought may find 

Us both securer than thus wam'd thou seem'st. 

Go ; for thy stay, not free, absents thee aiore : 

Go in thy native innocence ; rely 

On what thou hast of virtue, summon all ; 

For God towards thee hath done his part; do thine.** 

MIDTOW. 

SECTION IX. 
On jirocrastination, 

1. Be wise to-day ; ^tis madness to defer : 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of hfe. 
Procrastination is the thief of time. 
Year after year it steals, till all are fled ; 
And, to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 

2. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
The palm, " That all men are about to live :" 
For ever on the brinic of being born. 

All pay themselves the compliment to think. 
They, one day, shall not drivel ; and their p^ide 
On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
At least, their own; their future selves applauds; 
How excellent that life they ne'er will 1-ad ! 
Time lodg'd in their own hands is foU/'s vails; 
That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom the; consign; 
The thing they can't but puipose* they postpone. 
'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a ibol ; 
And scarce in human wisdom to do more, 

3. All promise is poor dilat??ry man ; 

And that thro' ev'ry stage. When yt)une, indeed. 
In foil content, we sometimes nobly rest, 
Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish. 
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
Knows it at fortv, and reforms his plan ; 
At fifty, chides nis infamous delav; 
02 * 



m THE ENGLISH READER. Fart 2. 

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
In all the magnanimity of thought, 
Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 
4. And why? Because he tlunks himself immortal. 
All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; 
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; 
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air. 
Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. 
As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; 
So dies in human hearts the thought of death. 
Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds 
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. young. 

SECTION X. 

That fihilosofihy, which sto/is at secondary camea, reproved. 
1. Happy the man who sees a God employ'd 

In all the good and ill that checker hfe ! 

Resolving all events, with their eflfects 

And manifold results, into the will 

And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 

Did not his eye rule alj things, and intend 

The least of our concerns ; (since from the least 

The greatest oft originate ;) could chance 

Find place in his dominion, or dispose 

One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 

Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen 

Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 

The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
2. 1'his truth, philosophy, though eagle-ey'd 

Ii\ nature's tendencies, oft o'erlooks ; 

Arid having found his instrument, forgets 

Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still. 

Denies the pow'r that wields it. God procljum? 

His ho^ displeasure against foolish men 

That ii\<5 an atheist life ; involves the heav'n 

In tempeists ; quits his grasp upon the winds. 

And gives them all their fury; bitls a plague 

Kindle a fierj? boil upon the "skin, 

And putrefy tl^e breath of blooming health ; 
3. He calls for fam'K\e, and the meagre fiend 

Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips. 

And taints the gokleh ear ; he springs his mines 

And desolates a nation a^ a blast : 

Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and telk 

Of homogeneal and discordajnt springs 

And principles ; of causes, how they work 

By necessary laws their sure effects. 

Of action and re-action. 
4-. He has found 

The source of the disease that nature feels ; 

And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 

Thou fool ! will thy discov'ry of the cause 



CtMti. 3. DIDACTIC PIECES. 163 

Suspend th' effect, or heal it ? Has not God 
Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 
And did he not of old employ his means 
To drown it ? What is his creation less 
Than a capacious resei'voir of means, 
Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him. 
Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
And learn, tliough late, the genuine cause of all. cowper. 

SECTION XL 
Indignant senti:^ents on national firejudicea and hatred; and on 

slaruery. 

1, Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit. 
Of unsuccessful or successful war. 

Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd. 

My soul is sick with ev'iy day's report 

Ot wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 

It does not feel for man. The nat'ml bond 

Of brotherhood is sever 'd, as the flax 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

2, He fmds his fellow guilty of a skin 

Not colour 'd like his own ; and having pow'r 
T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains inteipos'd. 
Make enemies of nations, who had else. 
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 

3, Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd. 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heait. 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

4, Then what is man ! And what man seeing this. 
And having human feelings, does not blusn 
And hang his head, to thmk himself a man, 

I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
To cany me, to fan me while I sleep. 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd 

5, No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimxation priz'd above all price ; 

I had much rather be myself the slave. 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 

6, Slaves cannot breath in England : if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 



U4 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2 

They touch our country, and their shackles fall 

That's noble, and bespepJcs a nation proud 

And jealous of the blessine*. Spreacf it then. 

And let it circulate through ev'ry vein 

Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power 

Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too cowper 



CHAPTER IV. 

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

J'he rnomijig in sinniner, 

1, The meek-ey'd mora appears, mother of dews. 
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ; 
Till far o'er ether spreads the wid'ning glow ; 
And from before the lustre of her face 

White l^reak the clouds away. With quicken'd step 
Bix)wn night retires : young day pours in apace. 
And opens all the lawny prospect ^vide. 

2. The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top. 
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. 
Blue, thro' the dusk, the smoking currents shine ; 
And from the bladed field the fearful hare 
Limps, awkward : while along the forest-glade 
The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze 

At early passenger. Music awEtkes 
The native voice of undissembled joy ; 
And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 

3. Rous'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves 
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; 
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 

His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. 
Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; 
And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy 
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour. 
To meditation due and sacred song ? 

4, For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise ^ 
To lie in dead ol^livion, losing half 

The fleeting moments of too short a life ; 

Total extinction of th' enlighten'd soul! 

Or else to feverish vanity alive, 

Wilder'd, and tossing thix)' distemper'd dreams ? 

Who would, in such a gloomy state, remain 

Longer than nature craves ; when ev'ry muse 

And everv blooming pleasure waits without, 

To bless tne wildly devious morning walk ^ Thomson. 

SECTION 11. 

Rural sounds, as well as rural sights, delightful, 
1. Nor nu^al sights alone, ]3ut rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds. 



Chap. 4. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. X^ 

That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike 
The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, 
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast. 
And all their leaves fast flutt'iing all at once. 

2. Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods ; or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain ; or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 

In matted gi-ass, that, with a livelier green, 
Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds ; 
But animated nature sweeter still. 
To sooth and satisfy the human ear. 

3. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The live-long night. Nor these alone, ..hose notes 
Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain ; 

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime. 

In still repeated circles, screaming loud. 

The jay, the pye, and ev'n the boding owl 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 

Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh. 

Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns. 

And only there, please highly for their sake. cowper. 

SECTION III 

The rose, 

1. The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower. 

Which Mary to Anna convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 
^ And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

2. The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet. 

And it seem'd to a fanciful view. 
To weep for the buds it had left with regret. 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
3, 1 hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd ; 
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 

I snapp'd it — it fell to the ground. 

4. And such, I exclaim 'd, is the pitiless part. 
Some act by the delicate mind. 

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart. 
Already to sorrow resign'd, 

5. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. 
Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile : 

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, 

May be foUow'd perhaps by a smile. cowper, 

SECTION IV. 
Care of birds for their young. 
1. As thus the patient dam assiduous sits. 
Not to bo tempted fi-om her tender task, i 




im THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

Or by shaiT) hunger, or by smooth delight, 
Tho' the wliole loosen'd spring around lier blows. 
Her sympathising partner takes his stand 
High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings 
The tedious time away ; or else supplies 
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits 
To pick the scanty meal. 

2. Th' appointed time 
With pious toil fulfiird, the callov/ young, 
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, ^ 
Their brittle bondage break, and come to light, 
A helpless family, demanding food 

With constant clamour. O what passions then. 
What melting sentiments of kindly care. 
On the new parents seize ! 

3. Away they fly 
Affectionate, and undesiring bear 

The most delicious morsel to their young ; 

Which equally distributed, again 

The search begins. Even so a gentle pair. 

By fortune sunk, but form'd of gen'rous mould, . 

And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, 

In some lone cot amid the distant woods, 

Sustain'd alone by providential Heav'n, 

Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train. 

Check their own appetites, and give them all. Thomson. 

SECTION V. 

Uherty and slavery contrastecL Part of a letter vjritten firom 

Italy by Addison. 

1. How has kind Heav'n adorn'd the happy land. 
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand ! 
But what avail her unexhausted stores. 

Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores. 
With all the gifts that heav'n and ea.rth impart. 
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art. 
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
\nd tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
The redd'ning orange, and the swelling gi^ain ; 
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines. 
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines. 

2. Oh, Liberty, thou pow'r supremely bright. 
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! 
Perpetual pleasures in thy presence reign ; 
And smiling plenty leads thywanton train. 
Eas'd of her load, subjectioii grows more light ; 
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight. 
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay ; 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. 
On foreign mountains, may the sun reline 

The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine ,; 
With citron groves adorn a distant soil. 
And the fat olive swell v/ith floods of oil 



Chafi.4. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 167 

We envy not the. warmer clime, that lies 
111 ten degrees of more indulgent skies ; 
Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, 
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 
Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, 
And makes her ban-en rocks, and her bleak mountains smile. 

SECTION YL 

Charity, A Jiaraphrase on the loth chafiter of the Jirst ejiistle 
to the Corinthians, 

1. Did sweeter sounds adom my flowing tongue. 
Than ever man pronounc'd or angel sung ; 
Had I all knowledge, human and divme. 
That thought can reach, or science can define; 
And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth. 
In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; 
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, 
To weaiy toitures, and rejoice in fire ; 
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, 
Wheti Moses gave them miracles, and law : 
Yet, gi'acious charity, indulgent guest, 
Were not thy pow'r exerted in my breast ; 
Those speeches would send up unheeded pi^y'r ; 
That scom of life vv^ould be but wild despair ; 
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice ; 
My faith were form ; my eloquence werc noise. 

2. Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind. 
Softens the high, and rears tlie abject mind ; 
Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide 
Betwixt vile shame, and arbitraiy pride. 
Not soon provok'd, she easily forgives ; 
And much she suffers, as she much believes. 
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives ; 
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives ; 
Lays the rough paths of pee\dsh nature even ; 
And opens in each heart a little heav'n. 

3. Each other gift, which God on man bestows. 
Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows ; 
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its pow'r ; 
And finishing its act, exists no more. 
Thus, in obedience to w^hat Heav'n decrees. 
Knowledge shaU fail, and prophecy shall cease ; 
But lasting charity's m^ore ample sway. 
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay. 
In happy triumph shall for ever live ; 
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive, 

4 As through the artist's intervening glass. 
Our eye obsei^es the distant planets pass ; 
A little we discovei* ; but allow, 
That more remains unseen, than ait can shov/ ; 
So whilst our mind its knowledge ^yculd improve, 
(Its feeble eye intent on things above,) 
High as we may, we lift our' reason up, 
By faith directed, and confirm 'd hv hope ; 



168 THE ENGLISH READER. Part % 

Yet are we able only to survey, 
Dawnings of beams, and promises of day; 
Heav'n's fuller affluence mocks our dazzled sight ; 
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. 
5. But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd ; 
The sun shall soon be face to face beheld, 
In all his robes, with all his glory on, 
Seated sublime on his meridian throne. 
Then constant faith, and holy hope shall die. 
One lost in certainty, and one in joy: 
Whilst thou, more happy pow'r, fair charity. 
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three. 
Thy office, and thy nature still the same, 
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, 
Shalt still survive — 

Shalt stand before the host of heav'n confest. 
For ever blessing, and for ever blest. 

SECTION VIL 

Picture of a good man. 

1. Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw, 
What nothing else than angel can exceed, 
A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
Like Fhips at sea, whiJe in, above the world. 
With aspect mild, and elevated eye. 
Behold him seated on a mount serene. 
Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm : 
All the black cares, and tumults of this life, 
Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet. 
Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 

2. Earth's gemiine sons, the sceptred, and the slave, 
A mingled mob ! a wand'ring herd ! he sees, 
Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! 

His full reverse in all \ What higher praise ? 
What stronger demonstration of the right ? 
The present all their care ; the future his. 
When public welfare calls, or private want. 
They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals. 
Their virtues varnish nature ; his exalt. ^ 
Mankind's esteem they court ; and he his own. 

3. Theirs the wild chase of false Micities ; 
His, the compos'd possession of the true. 
Alike throughout is his consistent piece. 
All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
While party-colour'd shades of happiness, 
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
A madman's robe ; each purf of fortune blows 
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 

4. He sees with other eyes than theirs : where they 
Behold a sun, he spies a Deity; 
What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
An empire in his balance, weighs a ^rain. 
They tilings terrestrial worship as divine : 



Chafi. 4 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. W 

His hopes immoital blow them by, as dust, 
I'hat dims liis siglit and shortens his survey, 
Which longSj in infinite, to lose all bound. * 

5. Titles and honours (if they grove his fate) 
He lays aside to find his dignity ; 

No dignity they find in aught besides. 
They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
Man's real gloiy,) proud of an eclipse-: 
Himself too much he prizes to be proud ; 
And Hothing thinks so great in man, as man. 
Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect 
Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
Their int'rest, like a lion, lives on prey. 

6. They kindle at the sliadow of a wrong ; 
Wrong he sustains v/ith temper, looks on heav'n, 
Nor stoops to think his !njui^r his foe : 

Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace. 
A cover'd heart their character defends ; 
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 
r. With nakedness his innocence agrees ! 
While their broad foliage testifies their fall ! 
Their no-joys end, where his full feast begins : 
His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
To triumph in existence, his alone ; 
And his alone triumphantly to think 
His tine existence is not yet begim. 
His glorious course was, yesterday, complete : 
Death, then, was welcome ; yet life st'H is sweet, young 

SECTION VIII. 

The jikasures of retirement, 

1. O KNEW he but his happiness, of men 

I'he happiest he ! who, far from public rage, 
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd, 
D links the pure pleasures of the rural life. 

2. What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, 
Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd 

Of flatterers lalse, and in their turn abused ? 
Vile intercourse ! What though the glitt'iing robe, 
Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give, 
Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, 
The piide and gaze of fools, oppress him not ? 
What tho', from utmost land and sea purvey'd. 
For him each rarer tributary life 
Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps 
With luxur}' and death ? What tho' his bowl 
Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in beds 
Oft of gay cai^, he tosses out the night. 
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state ? 
What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys. 
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; 
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; 
Their hollow moments undelighted all ? 
Sure peace is his : a solid life estrang'd 
P 



170 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

To disappointment, and fallacious hope. 

3. Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, 

In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring. 

When heaven descends in showers ; or bends the bough 

When summer reddens, and when autumn beams ; 

Or in the wintiy glebe whatever lies 

Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap : 

These are not wanting ; nor the milky drove. 

Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale ; 

Nor bleating mountains ; nor the chide of streams. 

And hum oi bees, inviting sleep sincere 

Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade. 

Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay ; 

Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song. 

Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear. 

4. Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; 
Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth. 
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd ; 
Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil ; 

-Calm contemplation, and poetic ease. Thomson, 

SECTION IX. 
Th€ fdeOBure and benefit of an imfiroved and well-dv^ected ima- 
gination, 
1, Oh ! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs 

Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes 

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 

Ot pageant Honour, can seduce to leave 

Those ever blooming sweets, which, from the store 

Of nature, fair imagination culls, 

To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What tho' not all 

Of mortal offspring can attain the height 

Of envy'd life ; tho' only few possess 

Patrician treasures, or imperial state ; 

Yet nature's care, to all her children just. 

With richer treasures, and an ampler state. 

Endows at large whatever happy man 

Will deign to use them, 
% His the city's pomp. 

The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns 

The princely dome, the column, and the arch. 

The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold. 

Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim. 

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring 

Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 

Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand 

Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 

With blooming gold, and blushes like the mom. 

Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings : 

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk. 

And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 

Flies o'er the meadow ; not a cloud imbibes 

The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain 

From all the tenants of the warbling shade 



Oiufi. 5, PATHETIC PIECES. Ifl 

Ascends ; but whence his bosom can partake 

Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd, 
S, Nor thence partake* 

Fresh pleasure only ; for th' attentive mind. 

By this harmonious action on her powers. 

Becomes hei^elf harmonious : wont so oft 

In outward things to meditate the charm 

Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home, 

To find a kindred order ; to exert 

Within herself this elegance of love. 

This fair inspir'd delight : her temper'd pow'rs 

Refine at length, and every passion wears 

A chaster, milder, more attractive mien, 
4% But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze 

On nature's form, where, neghgent of all 

These lesser graces, she assumes the port 

Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd 

The world's foundations, if to these the mind 

Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far 

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms 

Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs? 

Would sordid policies, the barb 'rous growth 

Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down 

To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear; 
5, Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds 

And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course. 

The elements and seasons : all declare 

For what th' etenial biaker has ordain'd 

The pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselves 

His energy divine : he tells the heart. 

He meant, he made us to behold and love 

What he beholds and loves, the general orb 

Of life and being ; to be great like Him, 

Beneficent and active. Thus the men 

Whom nature's works instruct, with God himsdf 

Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, 

With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; 

And form to his, the relish of their souls, AKSKSlDSk 



CHAPTER V. 

PATHETIC PIECES. 

SECTION L 

The hermit. 
1. At the close of the day, v/hen the hamlet is still. 
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ; 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill. 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove, 
*Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar. 

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit 1 
No more with himself or with nature at war. 
He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. 



tn THE ENGLISH READER. Fart % 

2, " Ah! why, all abandou'd to darkness and wo; 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay. 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourU^ 
O sooth him' whose pleasures like thine pass away : 

Full quickly they pass — ^but they never return, 

3, *' Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky. 

The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays : 
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendour again : 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew I 

Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain ! 
4 " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : 

I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For mom is approaching, your charms to restore, 

Perfum'd witli fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew* 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! 

O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave! 

5, ** *Twas thus by the glare of false science betrayed. 

That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind ; 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shfldCji 

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind, 
O pity, great Father of light, then I cried. 

Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee? 
L»o, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free, 

6. ** And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn ; 
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray. 

The bright and the balmy effulgence oi mom. 
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending. 

And nature all glowing in Eden's nrst bloom ! 
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending^^ 

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 

iilATTIE* 

SECTION II. 

The beggar^s fietition, 
1. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 
3» These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak. 

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ; 
And many a furrow in my grief- worn cheek. 
Has been the channel to a flood of teai^ 



Ckafi, 5. PATHETIC PIECEb. 17$ 

3. Yon house, erected on the rising gi'ound. 

With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; 
For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

4. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 

Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, 
A pamper'd menial dix)ve me from the door, 
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 

5. Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome ; 

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the colCi ■ 
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb ; 
For I am poor, and miserably old» 

6. Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 

If soft humanity e'er touch 'd your breast. 
Your hands would not ^vithhold the kind relieu 
And tears of pity would not be represt. 

7. Heav'n sends misfortunes ; why should we repine ? 

'Tis Heav'n has brought me'to the state you see f 
And your condition may be soon like mine, 
The child of s-rro^vand of misery, 

8. A little farm was my paternal lot ; 

Then like the lark t sprightly hail'd the mom ; 
But ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot. 
My cattle died, and blighted vvt.s my com. 

9. My daughter, once the comfort of my age, 

Lur'd Dy a villain from her native home. 

Is cast abandon'd on the v/orld's wide stage, 

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam, 

10. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! 

Stmck with sad anguish at the stem decree. 
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ; 

And left the world to wretchedness and me, 

11. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 

Whose trembUng limbs have home him to your do<^ 
Wliose days are dwindled to the shortest span : 
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store, 

SECTION III. 

Unhafifiy cluse of life, 
1. How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! 

To him that is at ease in his possessions! 

Who counting on long years of pleasure here. 

Is quite unfumish'd for' the world to come! 

In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 

Raves round the walls of her clay tenement ; 

Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help ; 

But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks 

On all she's leaving, now no longer hers! 
3. A lit|^ longer ; yet a httle longer ; 

O miffllt she stay to wash away her stains ; 

And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight ! 

Her very eyes weep blood ; and ev'r}^ groan 
P 2 



|M THE ENGLISH READER. Pat^ 2, 

She heaves is big with horror. But the foe. 
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,. 
Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life ; 
Nor misses once the track ; but presses on. 
Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, 
JVt once she sinks to everlasting ruin. r. blair. 

SECTION IV. 

Rlegy to pity, 

1. Hail, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves the sigh. 

When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; 
Whose tears spontaneous cr}'^stallize the eye. 
When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless, 

2. Not all the sweets Arabia'^s gales convey 

From fiow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ; 
Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray. 
Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. 

3. Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play ; 

Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; 
No blood-stain d traces mark thy blameless way ; 
Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies. 

4. Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me. 

To spring the partridge from the guileful foe ; 
From secret snares the struggling bird to free ; 
And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow. 

5. And v/hen the air with heat meridian glows. 

And nature droops beneath the conqu'ring gleam^ 
Let us, slow wand'ring where the current flows, 
Save sinking iiies that float along the stream. 

6. Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care. 

To me thy sympathetic gifts impart ; 
Teach me in friendship's griefs to bear a share. 
And justly boast the gen'rous fueling heart. 

7. Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief; 

With timely aid the widow's woes assuage; 
To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief ; 
And be the sure resource of drooping age. 

8. So when the genial spring of life shall fade^, 

And sinking nature own the dread decay. 
Some soul congenial then may lend its aid. 
And gild the close of life's eventful day. 

SECTION V. 
fersea sufifiosed to be written by Alexander Selkirk^ during hisi 
solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez. 
1, I AM monarch of all I survey. 

My right there is none to dispute ; 
From the centre all round to the sea, 
. I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
Oh solitude ! where are the charms. 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms. 
Than reign in this horrible place. 



Cfat^. 5. PxVTHETIC PIECES. ITS 

2. I am out cf humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone ; 
Never hear the s\veet music of speech ; 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain. 

My form with indiiference see : 
They are so unacq^uainted with m,an, 

Their tameness is shocking to me, 

3. Society, friendship, and love. 

Divinely bestow 'd upon man. 
Oh had I the wings of a dove. 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth ; 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

4. Religion ! v/hat treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver or gold. 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These vallies and rocks never heard ; 
Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell. 

Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 

5. Ye windi that ha\^e made me your sport. 

Convey to this desolate shore. 
Some cordial endearing repoit 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
O tell me I yet have a friend. 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

6. How fleet is a glance of the mind! 

Compar'd with: the speed of its flight. 
The tempest itself lags behind. 

And the swift- wing'd arrows of light> 
When I think of my own native lana. 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

7. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 

The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place ; 

And mercy — encouraging thought! 
Gives even aflliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot, cowper. 

• ^ ^^ SECTION VI. 

■ Gratitude. 
1. When all fhy mercies, O my God ! 
Mv rising soul surveys, 



tr# THE ENGLISH READER. Parti, 

Transported with the view, I'm lost 
In wonder, love, and praise. 

2. O how shall words, with equal warmth, 

The gratitude declare, 
That glows within my ravish'd heart ? 
But thou canst read it there. 

3. Thy Providence my life sustain'd, 

And all my wants redrest, 

When in the silent womb I lay, 

And hung upon the breast. 

4. To all my weak complaints and cries. 

Thy mercy lent an ear. 
Ere yet my feeble tlioughts had learn 'd, 
To form themselves in pray'r. 

5. Unnumber'd comfoits to my soiil, 

Thy tender care bestow M, 
Before my infant heart conceivM 

From whom those comforts ilow'd. 
o. When, in the slipp'r}^ patlis of youth, 

With heedless steps, 1 raii, 
Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

7, Through hidden daneers, toils, and deaths. 

It gently clear'd my way ; 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 
More to be fear'd than they. 

8, When worn with sickness, oft hast thou. 

With health renew 'd my face ; 
And, when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
Reviv'd my soul with grace. 

9, Thy bounteous hand, with worldly bliss. 

Has made my cup run o'er ; 
And, in a kind and faithful friend. 
Has doubled all my store. 

10. Ten thousand thousand precious gifts. 

My daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart. 
That tastes those gifts with joy. 

11. Through ev'ry period of my life, ' 

Thy goodness I'll pursue; 

And, after death, in distant worlds. 

The glorious theme renew. 

12. When nature fails, and day and night, 

Divide thy works no more. 
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord ! 
Thy mercy shall adore. 

13. Through all eternity, to thee, 

A joyful song I'll raise, 
For O ! eternity's too short 

To utter all thy praise. addiso*. . 



.C^afi, 5. PATHETIC PIECES, 177 

SECTION VII. 

j1 man fierishing in the snow; from ivhence reflections are 
raised on the miseries of life, 

1. As thus the snows arise ; and foul and tierce, 
AU winter drives along the darken'd air ; 

In his own loose-revolving field, the swain 

Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend. 

Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes. 

Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 

Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid . 

Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on. 

From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 

Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps. 

Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 

Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 

In many a vain attempt. 

2. How sinks his soul ! 
What black despair, what horror fills his heart I 
When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 
His tufted cottage rising through the snow. 

He meets the roughness of the middle waste. 
Far from the track, and blest abode of man ; 
While round him night resistless closes fast. 
And ev'ry tempest howling o'er his head. 
Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 

3. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind. 
Of cover'd pits, unfathom ably deep, 

A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost ! 

,Of faithless bogs ; of precipices hu^e, 

Smooth'd up with snow ; and what is land, unknown. 

What water, of the still unfrozen spring. 

In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.- 

4. These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man. 
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 

5. In vain for him th' officious wife prepares 
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
In vain his little children, y)eeping out 

Into the mingled storm, demand their sire. 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
Nor wite, nor children, more shall he behold ; 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; 
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse, 
Stretch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast 

6. Ah, little think the gay licentious proud. 
Whom pleasure, powT, and affluence surround ; 
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth. 
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste ; 



irs THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

Ah little think they, while they dance along, 
How many feel, this very moment, death. 
And all the sad variety of pain : 

7, How many sink in tlie devouring flood. 

Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed, 
By shameful variance betwixt man and man ! 
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms. 
Shut from the common air, and common use 
Of their own limbs ! How many drink the cup 
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds. 
How many shrink into the sordid hut 
Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake 
With all the Aercer tortures of the mind. 
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse ! 

6. How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
In deep retir'd distress ! llow many stand 
Aix)und the death-bed of their dearest friends. 
And point the parting anguish ! Thought fond man 
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills. 
That one incessant struggle render life. 
One scene of toil, of surfering, and of fate. 
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, 
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; 
The conscious heart of charity would warm. 
And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; 
The social tear would rise, the social sigh ; 
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss. 
Refining still, the social passions work, Thomson. 

SECTION VIII. 

A morning hymn, 

1. These are thy glorious works, parent of good. 
Almighty, thine this universal frame. 

Thus wond'rous fair ; thyself how wond'rous then \ 
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us, invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lower work's ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine, 

2. Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night. 
Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye, in heaven. 
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol 

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 

If better thou belong not to the dawn. 

Sure pledge of day, tliat crov/n'st the smiling morn 

With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere. 

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 

Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul, 

Acknowledge him thy greater, sound'his praise 

In thy eternal course,' botli when thou climb'st, 

And when high noon hast gaia'd, and when thou fall'st. 



Ckafi, 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. • 179 

3. Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st. 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd m tiieir orb that flies ; 
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move 

In mystic dance, not without song, resound 

His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 

Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 

Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 

And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 

Vary to our great maker still nev/ praise, 

4. Ye mists and exhalations that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 
In honour to the world's great author rise! 
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, 

* Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs. 
Rising or falling still advance his praise. 

5. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow. 
Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines. 
With ev'ry plant, m sign of worship wave. 
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow 
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds 

That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise, 

6. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ; 
Witness if I be silent, mom or even. 
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade 
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 
Hail,^ UNIVERSAL Lord ! be bounteous still 
To give us only good; and if the night 
Has gathered aught of evil, or conceal'd. 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark, — milton. 



CHAPTER VI. 

PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Ode to content, 
1. O THOU, the nymph with placid eye! 
O seldom found, yet ever nigh! 
Receive my temp'rate vow : 
Not all the storms that shake the pole, 
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul. 
And smooth, unalter d brow. 
3, O come, in simplest vest array'd. 
With all thy sober cheer display'd. 

To bless my longing sight ; 

Thy mien composed, thy even pace. 

Thy meek regard., thy matron grace. 

And chaste subdu'd delight. 



180 THE ENGLISH READER. Part % 

2ft No more by varyijig passions beat, 

gently guide my pilgrim feet 

To find thy hermit cell ; 
Where in some pure and equal sky, 
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye^ 

The modest virtues dwell. 
4^ Simplicity in attic vest. 

And Innocence, with candid l^reast, 

And clear undaunted eye ; 
And Hope, who points to distant years, 
Fair op'ning thro* this vale of tears 

A vista to the sky. 
5* There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide. 
The temp 'rate joys in even tide. 

That rarely ebb or flow ; 
And Patience tnere, thy sister meek. 
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek. 

To meet the ofFer'd blow. 
^, Her influence taught the Phrygian sage 
A tyrant master's wanton rage, 

With settled smiles, to meet : 
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread, 
He bow'd his meek submitted head. 

And kiss'd thy sainted feet. 

7. But thou, O nymph, retir'd and coy ! 
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 

To tell thv tender tale ? 
The lowliest children of the ground. 
Moss-rose and violet blossom round. 

And lily of the vale. 

8. O say what soft propitious hour 

1 best may choose to hail thy pow'r. 

And court thy gentle sway ? 
When autumn^ friendly to the muse. 
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse. 

And shed thy milder day? 

9, When eve, her dewy star beneath. 

Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 

•^ And ev'iy storm is laid ? 
If such an hour was e'er thy choice. 
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice. 

Low whisp'riiig through the shade, earbauld . 

SECTION II. 

The shepherd and the philosopher. 

I, Rbmote from cities liv'd a swain, 
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain ; 
His head was silver'd o'er with age, 
And long experience made him sage ; 
In summer's heat and winter's cold. 
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold ; 
His hours in cheerful labour flew, 
Kor envy nor ambition knew : 



Chatu 6, PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 181 

His wisdom and his honest fame 
Through all the country rais'd his name. 

2. A deep philosopher (whose rules 

Of moral life were drawn from schools) 
The shepherd's homely cottage sought. 
And thus explor'd his reach of thought _ 
** Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil 
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ? 
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd. 
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ? 
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd. 
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ? 
Or, like the wise Ulysses, thro^vn. 
By various fates, on realms unknown, 
Hast thou through many cities stray'd, 
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd ?" 

3. The shepherd modestly replied, 

** I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; 

Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts. 

To read mankind, their laws and arts ; 

For man is practis'd in disguise. 

He cheats the most discerning eyes. 

Wl\o by that search shall wiser grow ? 

By that ourselves we never know. 

The little knowledge I have gain'd. 

Was all from simple nature drain'd ; 

Hence my life's maxims took their rise. 

Hence grew my settled hate of vice. 
4* The daily labours of the bee 

Awake my soul to industr}^ 

Who can observe the careful ant. 

And not provide for future want ? 

My dog (the trustiest of his kind) 

With gratitude inflames my mind : 

I mark his true, his faithful way^ 

And in my service copy Tray. ' 

In constancy and nuptial love, 

I learn my cluty fi'om the dove. 

The hen, who from the chilly air, 

With pious wing, protects her care, 

And ev'ry fowl that flies at large. 

Instructs me in a parent's charge. 
5. From nature too Itake my i-ule. 

To shun contempt and ridicule, 

I never, Avith important air, 

In conversation overbear. 

Can grave and foraial pass for wise, 

When men the solemn owl despise ? 

My tongue within my lips I rein ; 

For who talks much must talk &i vain. 

We from the wordy torrent fly: 

Who listens to the chatt'ring pye ? 

Nor would I, with felonious flight, 

By stealth invade my neighbour's right ; 
Q 



182 THE ENGLISH READER Part 2. 

6, Rapacious animals we hate ; 

Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate. 
Do not we just abhorrence find 
Against the toad and serpent kind ? 
But envy, calumny, and spite. 
Bear stronger venom in their bite. 
Thus ev'ry object of creation 
Can funiish hints to contemplation ; 
And, from the most minute and mean, 
A virtuous mind can morals glean. " 
r. " Thy fame is just," the sage replies ; 
** Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. 
Pride often guides the author's pen. 
Books as aflfected are as men : 
But he who studies nature's laws, 
Fix)m certain tnith his maxims draws ; 
And those, without our schools, suffice 
To make men moral, good, and wise." — —gay. 
SECTION HI. 
The road to hapfiiness o/ien to all men, 
i. Oh happiness! our beuig's end and aim ! 
Good, pleasure, ease, content ! whate'er thy name ; 
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, 
For which we bear to live, or dare to die : 
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
O'erlook'd, seen double, by tlie fool and wise ; 
Plant of celestial seed, if dropt below, ^^ 
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow t 

2. Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine. 
Or deep with diamonds in the fiaming miKC ? 
T^vin'a with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield. 
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? 

Where grows ? where grows it not ? if vain our toil. 

We ought to blame the' culture, not the soil. 

Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere ; 

'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where ; 

'Tis never to be bought, but always free ; 

And, fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with thee. 

3. Ask of the leam'd the w^ay. The learn'd arc blind ; 
This bids to serve, and that to shun -mankind ; 
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; 
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these : 
Some sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; 
Some swell'd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vain ; 

Or indolent, to each extreme they fall. 
To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. 

4. Who thus define it, say they more or less 
Than this, that happiness is happiness ? 
Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave ; 
All states cam reach it, and all heads conceive ; 
Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; 
There needs but thinking right, and meaning well; 
And mourn our various portions as we please, 
Equal is common sense, and common ease. 



Chafi. a PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 18S 

Remember, man, *^ the universal cause 
" Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws;" 
And makes what happiness we justly call, 
Subsist not in the good of one, but all, pope» 

SECTION IV. 

The goodness of Frovidence. 
1, The Lord my pasture shall prepare. 

And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 

His presence shall my wants supply. 

And guard me with a watchful eye ; 

My noon-day walks he shall attend. 

And all my midnight hours defend. 
% When in the sultiy glebe I faint. 

Or on the thirsty mountains pant ; 

To fertile vales, and dewy meads. 

My weary wand'ring steps he leads : 

Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 

Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
3» Tho' in the paths of death I tread. 

With gloomy hoiTors ovei'spread. 

My steadfast heart shall fear no ill ; 

For thou, O Lord, art with me still ; 

Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 

And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
4, Tho' in a bare and rugged way. 

Through devious lonely wilds I stray. 

Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 

The ban-en wilderness shall smile. 

With sudden greens and herbage crown'd. 

And streams shall murmur all around. addison. 

SECTION V. 

The Creaior^s works attest his greatness* 

1. The spacious firmament on high. 
With all the blue ethereal sky. 
And spangled heav'ns, a shining fi^me. 
Their great original proclaim : 
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day. 
Does his Creator's pow'r display. 
And publishes to ev'ry land. 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

2. Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale. 
And, nightly, to the list'ning earth. 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Wliilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their tura. 
Confirm, the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

3. What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ! 
What tho' nor real voice nor sound. 
Amid theu' radiant orbs be found ! 



I 



1S4 THE ENGLISH READER, Fortli. 

In reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice. 
For ever singing as they shine, 
" The hand that made us is Divine,*'— -addiscw. 

SECTION VL 

jln address to the Deity, 

1, O THOU ! whose balance does the mountains weigh ; 

Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey ; 

Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame^ 

That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; 

Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls. 

And on the boundless of thy goodness calls, 
% O ! give the winds all past oftence to sweep. 

To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. 

Thy pow'r, my weakness, may I ever see. 

And wholly dedicate my soul to thee. 

Reign o'er my will ; my passions ebb and flow 

At thy command, nor human motive knowi 

If anger boil, let anger be my praise. 

And sin the graceful indignation raise. 

My love be warm to succour the distress'd. 

And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd. 

3. () may my understanding ever read 

This glorious volume which thy wisdom made ! 

May sea and land, and earth and heav'n, be join'd. 

To bring th' eternal Author to my mind I 

When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, 

May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul t 

Wnen earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine. 

Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine ! 

4. Gi'ant I may ever at the morning ray. 
Open with pray'r the consecrated day; 
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise. 
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies ; 
As that advances, let my zeal improve. 
And glow with ardour of consummate love ; 
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun 
My endless worship shall be still begun. 

5. And Oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night. 
To sacred thought may forcibly invite. 
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise. 
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies ; 

Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, | 

And show all neiture in a milder light ; i 

How ev'ry boist'rous thought in calm subsides \ ! 

How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides I ] 

6. Oh how divine ! to tread the milky way, ' 
To the bright palace of the Lord of Day ; 

His court admn-e, or for his favour sue. 
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew ; 
Pleas'ci to look down and see the world asleep ; 
While I long vigils to its Founder keep ! 



Chaji. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 185 

. Canst thou not shake the centre ? Oh control. 
Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul ; 
Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood. 
Restrain the various tumults of my blood ; 
Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain 
Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. 
7. O may I pant for thee in each desire ! 
And with strong faith foment the holy fire ! 
Stretch out my soul in hope, and ^rasp the prize, 
Which in eternity's deep bosom lies ! 
At the great day of recompense behold. 
Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold ! 
Then wafted upward to the blissful seat. 
From age to age my grateful song repeat ; 
My Liglit, my Life, my God, my Saviour see, 
And rival angels in the praise ot thee ! young. 

SECTION VIL 

Thefiursicit of happiness often ill-dbrctecL 

!• The midnight moon serenely smiles 
O'er nature's soft repose ; 
No low'ring cloud obscures the sky, 
Nor ruffling tempest blows. 

2. Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest, 

The throbbing heart lies still ; 
And varying schemes of life no more 
Distract the lab'ring will. 

3. In silence hush'd to reason's voice. 
Attends each mental pow'r : 

Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy 
Reflection's fav'rite hour. 

4. Come ; while the peaceful scene invites. 
Let's search this ample round ; 

Where shall the lovely fleeting form 
Of happiness be found ? 

5. Does it amidst the frolic mirth 
Of gay assemblies dwell ; 

Or hide beneath the solemn gloom. 
That shades the hermit's cell ? 

6. How oft the laughing brow of joy, 
A sick'ning heart conceals ! 

And, through the cloister's deep recess. 
Invading sorrow steals. 

7. In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit. 
The fugitive we trace ; 

It dwells not in the faithless smile. 
That brightens Clodia's face. 

8. Perhaps the joy to these deny'd. 
The heart in friendship finds : 

/ Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit 

Of visionary minds ! 

9. Howe'er our varying notions ro-ve. 
Yet all agree in one, 

Q2 



1S6 THE EKGLISH READER. Parf,2; 

To place its being in some state, 
At distance from our own. 

10. O blind to each indulgent aim. 

Of power supremely wise. 
Who fancy happiness in aught 
The hand of Heav'n denies ! 

11. Vain is alike the joy we seek. 

And vain what we possess. 
Unless harmonious reason tunes 
The passions into peace. 

12. To temper'd wishes, just desires. 

Is happiness confin'd ; 
And, deaf to folly's call, attends 

The music of the mind. carter. 

SECTION VIIL 

21i€ fire-side, 

1. Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

In folly's maze advance ; 
Tho' singularity and pride 
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, i 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

2. From the gay world, we'll oft retire ' 
To our own family and iire. 

Where love our hours employs; 
No noisy neighbour enters here. 
No intermeddling stranger near. 

To spoil our heart-felt joys, 

3. If solid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this jewel lies ; 

And they are fools who roam : 
The world has nothing to bestow ; 
From our own selves our joys must flow. 

And that dear hut, our home. 

4. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft. 

When with impatient wi-ng she left 1 

That safe, retreat, the ark ; 
Giving her vain excursion o'er, | 

The disappointed bird once more ; 

Explor'd the sacred bark. 

5. Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs. 
We, who improve his golden hours. 

By sweet experience know. 
That marriage rightly understood. 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below. 

6. Our babes shall richest comfort bring ; 
If tutor'd right, they'll provig a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise : 
We'll form their minds, with studious care. 
To all that's manly, good, and fair. 

And train them for the skies. 



Chafi. 6. I PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

7, WJiile they our wisest hours engage. 
They'll joy our youth, support our age. 

And crown our hoary hah's : 
Tliey'il grow in virtue ev'ry day, 
Aiid thus our fondest loves repay. 

And recompense our cares. 

8, No borrow 'd joys I they're all our own, 
WTiile to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forgot : 
Monarchs ! we env\^ not your state ; 
We look with pity on the great, 

And bless our humbler lot. 

9, Our portion is not large, indeed ! 
But then how little do we need! 

For nature's calls are few : 
In this the art of living lies, 
To want no more than may suffice. 

And make that little do. 

10. We'll therefore relish, with content, 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our pow'r ; 
For if our stock be very small, 
*ris prudence to enjoy it all. 

Nor lose the present hour. 

11. To be resign'd, when ills betide, 
I^atient when favours are denied. 

And pleas'd with favours giv'n : 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; 
This is that incense of the heart, 

W^hose fragi^ance smells to heav'n. 

12. We'll ask no iong protracted treat. 
Since v^inter-iife is seldom sweet; 

; But when cur feast is o'er, 
Oratefal from table we'll arise, 
2^or grudge cur sons, with envious eyes, 
\ The relics of our store. 

13. Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go 
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo, 

' With cautious steps, we'll tread ; 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear. 
Without a trouble or a fear, 
And mingle with the dead. 

14. \^hile conscience, like a faithful friend. 
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend. 

And cheer our dying breath ; 
Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
I^ike a kmd angel whisper peace, 
! And smooth the bed of death. cottok, 

I ^ SECTION IX. 

Provufence vindicated in thefiresent state of trmru 

1, Heav'n \ from all creatuTtes hides the book of fate. 
All but t ihe page prescrib'd, their present state ; 



Mr 



188 THE ENGLISH READER. Pm % 

From bnites what men, from men what spiri ts know ; 
Or who could suffer being here below? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the ilow'ry food. 
And licks the hand just rais'd to sked his blood, 

2, Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n. 

That each may fill the circle mark'd by Hea^^'n ; 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 

A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd. 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

3, Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 
Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adoi-e. 
What future bliss he gives not thee to know. 

But gives that hope to be thy blessing now, 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never is, but always to be blest. 
The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

4, Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; ; 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the Solar Walk or Milky Way ; 

Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n. 
Behind the cloud-topt hill, a humbler heav'n ; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, | 
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste ; 
Where slaves once more their native land behold. 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold* 

5, To BE, contents his natural desire ; 

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire : 

But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. 

His faithfiil dog shall bear him company. 

Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense. 

Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 

Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 

Say here he gives too little, there too much. — 
6^ In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies ; 

All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 

Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes ; 

Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 

Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell. 

Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 

And who but wishes to invert the laws 

Of ORDER, sins against th' eternal cause.- -pope, 
SECTION X. 
Selfishness rejiroved, 
1. Has God, thou fool ! work'd solely for thy go« od. 

Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ? 

Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn. 

For him as kindly spreads the flow'ry lawn. 

Is it for thee the lark ascends and sin^s ? 
'^ Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 



a^/i. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

Is it for thqe the linnet pours his throat ? 
Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note. 

2. The bounding steed you pompously bestride. 
Shares with his lord the pleasure aiid the pride. 
Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? 
The birds of heav'n shall vindicate their eraiiu 
Thine the full harvest of the golden year? 
Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. 
The hog, t^iat ploughs not, nor obeys thy call. 
Lives on the labours of this IoitI of all. 

S, Know, nature's children all divide her care ; 
The fur that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear. 
While man exclaims, " See all things for my use,** 
** See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose* 
And just a:; short of reason he must fall. 
Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 

4. Grant that the pow'rful still the weak control ; 
Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole : 
Nature that tyrant checks ; he only knows. 
And helps sjibther creature's w^ants and woes. 
Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, 

Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove ? 
Admires the jay, the insect's gilded wings ? 
Or hears the hawk ^vhen Philomela sings ? 

5. Man cares for all : to birds he gives his woods^ 
To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods ; 
For some his mt'rest prompts him to provide. 
For more his pleasures, yet for more his pride*. 
AH fed on oqc vain patron, and enjoy 

Th' extensive blessing of his luxury. 

6. That very life his learned hunger craves. 

He saves from famine, from the savage saves : 

Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast ; 

And, till he ends the being, makes it blest : 

Which sees no more the stroke, nor feels the pain. 

Than favoured man by touch ethereal slain, 

T'he creature had his feast of life before ; 

Thou too mi^st perish, when thy feast is o'er!— POPR, 

SECTION XL 

Huma7i frailty, 

1. Weak and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day. 
Woven with pains into nis plan, 
To-morrow rends away, 

2. The bow wxll bent, and smart the spring. 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But passion rudely snaps the string, 
And it rcvives again. 

3. Sonie foe to his upright intent, 

Finds out his weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent. 
But pleasure wins his heail. 

4. 'Tis liere the folly of the wise. 

Through all his ait we view ; 



i89 



I 



1^ THE ENGLISH READER. PareZ 

And while his tongue the charge denie 5, 
His conscience owns it true. 

5. Bound on a voyage of awful length. 

And dangers little known, 

A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

6. But oars alone can ne'er prevail 

To reach the distant coast ; 
The breath of heav'n naust swell the afeil. 
Or all the toil is lost 

SECTION XII. 
Ode to peace, 

1. Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! 
Return, and make thy downy nest 

Once more in this sad heart : 
Nor riches I, nor pow'r pursue. 
Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 

We therefore need not part. 

2. Where wilt thou dwell, if not with mie. 
From av'rice and ambition free. 

And pleasure's fatal wiles ; 
For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
The sweets that I was wont to share. 

The banquet of thy smiles ? 

3. The great, the gay, shall they partalj:e 
The heav'n that thou alone canst mak:e ; 

And wilt thou quit the stream. 
That murmurs through the dewy me ad. 
The grove and the sequester'd shade,, 

To be a guest with them ? 

4. For thee I panted, thee I priz'd. 
For thee I gladly sacrific'd 

Whatever I lov'd before ; 
And shall I see thee start away. 

And helpless, hopeless, hear thee saj ' >- 

Farewell, we meet no more ? c OWPER* 

SECTION XIII. 
Ode to adversity, 

1. Daughter of Heav*n, relentless power, 
Thoti tamer of the hum. an breast. 
Whose iron scourge, and tort'ring houi *, 
The bad aifright, afflict the best! 
Bound in thy adamantine chain. 

The proud are taught to taste of pain. 
And purple tyrants va.inly groan 
With pangs unfclt before, unpitied and alon e. 

2. When fii'st thy sire to send on earth 

Virtue, his darling child, design'd, i 

To thee he gave the heav'nly birth. 
And bade to form her infant mind. 
Stern iTig^ged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
With patience many a year she bore. 
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her kno w ; 
And ftx^m her own she lear-n'd to melt at ot tiers' wo. 



Chafi. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 191 

3. Sc€ ir'd at thy frown terrific, fiy 

Sel t-pleasing folly's idle brood, • 

Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy, 
At id leave us leisure to be good. 
Li ght they disperse ; and with them go 
T!he summer-friend, the flatt'ring foe. 
By vain prosperity receiv'd, 
,^To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. 
4^ V Wisdom, in sable garb aiTay'd, 

Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound, 
ilnd melancholy, silent maid, 
'^.Vith leaden eye that loves the ground, 
Sitill on thy solemn steps attend ; 
^iVarm charity, the gen'ral friend. 
With justice to herself severe. 
And pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing t^ir. 

5, (Jh, gently, on thy suppliant's head, 
I)read power, lay thy chast'ning hand ! 
Not in thy gorgon terrors clad. 

Nor circled with the vengeful band, 
(As by the impious thou art seen,) 
With thund'ring voice, and threat 'ning mien. 
With screaming horror's fim'ral ciy. 
Despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty. 

6, Thy form benign, propitious, wear. 
Thy milder influence impart ; 
Thy philosophic train be there. 
To soften, not to wound my heart. 
The gen'rous spark extinct revive ; 
Teach me to love, and to forgive ; 
Exact my own defects to scan j 

What others are to feel; and know myself a man. — gray, 

SECTION XIV. 

The creation required to firaise its Author, 

1. Begin", my soul, th' exalted lay ! 
Let each enraptur'd thought obey. 

And praise th' Almighty's name : 
Lo! heaven and earth, and seas and skies, 
In one melodious concert rise. 

To swell th' inspiring theme. 

2. Ye fields of light, celestial plains. 
Where gay transporting beauty reigns. 

Ye scenes divinely fair! 
Your Maker's wond'rous pow'r proclaim. 
Tell how he form'd your shining frame. 

And breath'd the fluid air. 
o. Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound ! 
While all th' adoring thrones around. 

His boundless mercy sing : 
Let ev'ry list'ning saint above 
Wake all the tuneful soul of love, 

And touch the sweetest string. 



192 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

4. Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal chohv; 
Thou dazzling orb oi! liquid fire. 

The mighty chorus aid : 
Soon as gra/ ev'ning gilds the plain. 
Thou, moony protract the melting straiit^ 

And pnii^e him in the shade. 

5. Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode ; 
Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God, 

Who caird yon worlds from night : 
'* Ye shades dispel!" — th' Eternal said; \ 
At once th' involving darkness fled. 

And nature sj)rung to light. 

6. Whate'er a blooming world contains. 
That wings the air, that skims the plains, 

United praise bestow : 
Ye dragons, sound his awful name 
To heav'n aloud ; and roar acclaim. 

Ye swelling deeps below. 
r. Let ev'ry element rejoice ; 

Ye thunders burst v/kh awful voice. 

To HIM who bids you roll : 
His praise in softer notes declare. 
Each whispering breeze of yielding air, 

And breathe it to the soul. 
?, To him, ye graceful cedars, bow ; 
Ye tow'rmg mountains, bending low. 

Your great Creator own ; 
Tell, when affrighted nature shook. 
How Sinai kmdled at his look. 

And trembled at his frown. 
9. Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale. 
Ye insects flutt'ring on the gale. 

In mutual concourse rise ; 
Crop the ^ay rose's vermeil bloom. 
And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume. 

In incense to the skies. 

10, Wake all ye mounting tribes, and sing ; 
Ye plumy warblers oi the spring. 

Harmonious anthems raise 
To HIM who shap'd your finer mould. 
Who tipp'd your glitt'ring wings with gold. 

And tun d your voice to praise. 

11, Let man, by nobler passions sway'd. 
The feeling heart, the judging head. 

In heav'nly praise em.ploy ; 
Spread his tremendous name around. 
Till heav'n's broad arch rings back the sound. 

The gen'ral burst of joy. 

12, Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, 
Nurs'd on the downy lap of ease. 

Fall prostrate at his throne : 
Ye princes, rulers, all adore ; 
Praise him, ye kin^s, who makes your pow'r 

An image of his own. 



Chafi. 6, PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 193 

13, Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, 
O praise th' eternal source of love. 

With youth's enliv'ning fire : 
Let age take up the tuneful lay, 
Sigh his bless'd name — ^then soar away. 
And ask an angel's lyre. ogilvie. 

SECTION XV. 

272^ universal fir ay er* 

1. Father of all ! in ev'ry age, 

In ev'ry clime, ador'd. 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord 1 

2. Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, least understood. 

Who all my sense confin'd 
To know but this, that Thou art good. 
And that myself am blind ; 

3. Yet gave me, in thi.s dark estate. 

To see the good from ill ; 
And binding na.ture fast in fate, 
I^eft free the human will. 

4. What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns n"ie not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shin, 
Tha;, more than heav'n pursue. 

5. What blessings thy free boimty gives. 

Let me not cast av/ay ; 
For God is pa'd, when man receives ; 

T' enjoy is to obey. 
6v Yet not to earth's contracted span 

1'hy goodness let me bound. 
Or think thee Lord alone of man. 

When thousand worlds are round, 
r, L^t not this weak, unknowing hand 

Presume thy bolts to throw ; 
And deal damnation round the land. 

On each I judge thy foe. 

8. If 1 am right, thy grace impart. 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wiongs O teach my heart 
To find that better way ! 

9. Save me alike from foolish pride. 

Or impious discontent. 
At aught thy v/isdom has denied. 
Or aught thy goodness lent 

10. Teach me to feel another's wo ; 

To hide the fault I see ;. 

That mercy I to otliers siiovf. 

That mercy show to me. 

11. Mean tho' I am, not wholly so, 

Skice quicken'd by thy breath ; 
O lead me wheresoe'er I go, 
Thro' this day's life or death ! 
K 



194 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 2. 

12» This day, be bread and peace my lot : 
All else beneath the sun. 
Thou know'st if best be stow 'd or not. 
And let thy will be done. 
13. To thee, whose temple is all space. 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies 1 
One chorus let all beings raise ! 
All nature's incense ris^.-— — pope. 

SECTION XVI. 

Conscience. 
1, O TREACHEROUS conscience ! while she seems to sleep 

On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song; 

While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop 

On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein. 

And give us up to license, unrecal] 'd, 

Unmark'd ; — see, from behind her secret stand. 

The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault. 

And her dread diary with horror fills. 
% Not the gross act alone employs her pen ; 

She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, 

A watchful foe ! the formida.ble spy, 

List'ning, o'erhears the whispers of our camp ; 

Our dawning purposes of heart explores. 

And steals our embryos of iniquity, 
S. As all rapacious usurers conceal 

Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs ; 

Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats 

Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 

Unnoted, notes each moment misapply 'd ; 

la leaves more durable than leaves of brass, 

Writes our whole history ; v/hich death shall read 

In ev'ry pale delinquent s private ear ; 

And Jud^ent publish ; publish to more worlds 

Than this ; and endless age in groans resound. — young 

SECTION XVII. 
On an i7ifant, 
1. To the dark and silent tomb. 

Soon I hasten'd from the womb : 

Scarce the dawn of life began. 

Ere I measur'd out my span. 

2,? I no smiling pleasures knev/ ', 

' I no gay delights could view : 

Joyless sojourner was I, 

Only bom to weep and die. — > 
3. Happy infant, early bless'd ! 

Rest, in peaceful slumber, rest ; 

Early rescu'd from the cares. 

Which increase with growing years. 
4,|No dehghts are worth thy stay. 

Smiling as they seem, and gay ; 

Short and sickly are they rll, , 

Hardly tasted ere they pall 



Chafi. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 195 

5. All our gaiety is vain. 

All our laughter is but pain ; 
I^asting only, and divine. 
Is an innocence like thine. 

SECTION XVIIL 
The cuckoo* 
i. Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood. 
Attendant on the spring ! 
Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat, 
And woods thy welcome sing, 
S. Soon as the daisy decks the green. 
Thy certain voice we hear : 
Hast thou a star to guide thy patli. 
Or mark the roiling year ? 
5. Delightfol visitant ! with thee 
I hail the time ot flow'rs. 
When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet. 
Of birds among the bow'rs. 

4. The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood, 

To pull the iiow'rs so gay. 
Starts, thy curious voice to hear. 
And imitates thy lay. 

5. Soon as the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou fiy'st the vocal vale. 
An annual guest, in other lands, ^' 

Another spiing to hail. 

6. Sweet bird ! thy bow'r is ever green, 
Th}r sky is ever clear ; 

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 
No winter in thy year ! 

7. O could I fly, I'd fly with thee; 
We'd make, v/ith social wing. 

Our annual visit o'er the globe. 

Companions of the spring. LOGAN. 

SECTION XIX. 
Day, A pastoralin three fiarts^ 

MORNING. 

i. In the bam the tenant cock. 

Close to Partlet perch'd on high. 
Briskly crows, (tiie shepherd's clock !) 
Jocund that the morning's nigh. 

2. Swiftly, from the mountain's brow. 
Shadows, nurs'd by night retire ; 

And the peeping sun-beam, now 
Paints with gold the village spire^ 

3. Philomel forsakes the thorn. 
Plaintive where she prates at night ; 

And the lark to meet the mom. 
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 

4. From the low-roof 'd cottage ridge, '^':'':- 
See the chatt'ring swallow spring ; 



1&95 THE ENGLISH READER. Part % 

Darting through the one-arch'd bridge. 
Quick she dips her dappled wing. 

5, Now the pine-tree's waving top 

Gently greets the morning gale ; 
Kidlings, now, begin to crop 
Daisies, on the dewy dale. 

6, From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd, 

(Restless till her task be done,) 
Now the busy bee's employ'd. 
Sipping dew before the sun. 

7, Trickling through the crevicM rock. 

Where the limpid stream distils, 
Sweet refreshment waits the flock. 
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 

8, Colin's for the promis'd com 

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) 

Anxious ; — whilst the huntsman's horaj 

Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 

9, Sweet — O sweet, the warbling throng;; 

On the white emblossom'd spray! 
Nature's imiversal song 
Echoes to the rising'day. 

'""■ NOON, ^ 

10. Fervid on the glitt'ring flood, 

Now the noontide radiance glows : 
Drooping o'er its infant bud. 
Not a dew-drop's left the rose. 

11. By the brook the shepherd dines. 

From the fierce meridian heat, 
Shelter'd by the branching pines. 
Pendent o'er his grassy seat. 

12. Now the flock forsakes the glade. 

Where imcheck'd the sun-beams fall. 
Sure to fit^d a pleasing shade 
By the ivy'd abbey wall, 
13i Echo, in her airy round. 

O'er the rive?a, rock, and hill. 
Cannot catch a single sound. 
Save the clack of yonder mill. 

14. Cattle court the zephyrs bland. 

Where the streamlet wanders cool ; 
Or with languid silence stand 
Midway in the marshy pool. 

15. But from mountain, dell, or stream. 

Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs ; 
Fearful lest the noontide beam 
Scorch its soft, its silken wings. 

16. Not a leaf has leave to stir, 

Nature's lull'd— serene — and still ! 
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur. 
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 

17. Lan^id is the landscape round, ^ 

TiU the fresh descending showV, 



Chafi. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 197 

Grateful to the thirsty ground. 

Raises ev'ry fainting fiow'p. 
1^, Now the hill— the hedge— are green. 

Now the warblers' throats in tune ; 
Blithsome is the verdant scene, 

Brighten'd by the beams of Noon ! 

EVENING. 

19. O'er the heath the heifer strays 

Free — (the fiirrow'd task is done :) 
Now the village windows blaze, 
Burnish'd by the setting sun, 

20. Now he sets behind the hill. 

Sinking from a golden sky : 
Can the pencil's mimic skill 
Copy the refulgent dye ? 

21. Tr^d^g as the ploughmen go, 

(To the smoking hamlet bound,) 
Giant-like their shadows grow 
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. 

22. Where the rising forest spreads 

Shelter for the lordly dome! 
To their high-built aiiy beds. 
See the rooks returning home ! 

23. As the lark, with vary'd tune, 

Carols to the ev'ning loud ; 
Mark the mild resplendent moon, ^ 

Breaking through a parted cloud! 
24 Now the hermit owlet peeps 

From the bam or twisted brake ; 
And the blue mist slov/ly creeps. 

Curling on the silver lake. 

25. As the trout in speckled pride. 

Playful from its bosom springs ; 
To the banks a ruffled tide 
Verges in successive rings. 

26. Tripping through the silken grass. 

O'er the path-divided dale, 
Mark the rose-complexion'd lass. 
With her well-pois'd milking pail! 

27. Linnets with unnumber'd notes, 

And the cuckoo bird v/ith two. 
Tuning sweet their mellow throats. 
Bid the setting sun adieu, CUNNINGHAM. 



SECTION XX. 

The order of nature. 



I 

1, See, thro' this mr, this ocean, and this eartl^. 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go! 
Aroimd, how wide! how deep extend below: 
Vast chain of being! which from C^od began. 
Nature ethereal, human ; angel, man ; 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see. 
No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 

K2 



198 THE ENGLISH READER. Part % 

From thee to nothing. — On superior pow'rs 

Were we to press, infenor might on ours ; 

Or in the full creation leave a void, 

Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd • 

From nature's chain whatever link you strike. 

Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 
% And, if each system in gradation roll, 

Alike essential to th' amazing whole. 

The least confusion but in one, not all 

That system only, but the whole must fall. 

Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly. 

Planets and suns ran lawless thro' the sky; 

Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd. 

Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ; 

Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod. 

And nature tremble to the throne of God. 

Ail this dread order break — for whom ? for thee ? 

Vile worm! Oh madness! pride! impiety! 
3, What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread. 

Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? 

What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 

To seiTe meie engines to the ruling mind ? 

Just as absurd for any part to claim 

To be another, in this gen'ral frame : 

Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains. 

The great directing mind of all ordains. 
4* All are but parts of one stupendous whole. 

Whose body nature is, and God the soul : 

That, chang'd thro' ail, and yet in all the same. 

Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; 

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 

Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent. 

Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. 

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 

As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. 

As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 

To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 

He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all, 
5. Cease then, nor order imperfection name : 

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 

Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree 

Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. 

Submit. — In this or any other sphere. 

Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 

Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 

Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 

All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 

All discord, harmony not understood ; 

AU partial evil, universal good ; 

And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite. 

One truth is clear,— whatever is, is right.— —p^r. 



Chafi. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 1^ 

SECTION XXI. 

Confidence in Divine protection. 

1. How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 

Eternal wisdom is their guide. 

Their help Omnipotence. 

2. In foreign realms, and lands remote. 

Supported by thy care, 
Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt. 
And breath'd in tainted air. 

3. Thy mercy sweeten'd ev'ry soil. 

Made ev'ry region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd. 
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas. 

4. Think, O my soul, devoutly think, ^ 

How with affrighted eyes. 
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep 
In all its horrors rise ! 

5. Confusion dwelt in ev'ry face. 

And fear in ev'ry heart. 
When waves on waves, and gulfs in gi'lfs 
O'ercame the pilot's art. 

6. Yet then, from all my griefs, O Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free ; - 

While in the confidence of pray'r 
My soul took hold on thee. 

7. For tho' in dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou v/ert not slow to hear. 
Nor impotent to save. 

8. The storm was laid, the winds retir'd. 

Obedient to thy will ; 
The sea that roar'd at thy command. 
At thy command was still. 

9. In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths. 

Thy goodness I'll adore ; 
And praise thee for thy mercies past. 
And humbly hope for more. 
10. My hfe, if thou preserve my life. 
Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doomj 
Shall join my soul to thee. 

SECTION xxn. 

Hymn on a review of the seasons, 
1. These, as they change, Almighty Father! these 
Are but the varied God, The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks. Thy tenderness and love. 
Wide flush the fields ; the soft'ning air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles. 
And ev'ry sense, and ev'ry heart is joy. 



200 THE ENGLISH READER. Part% 

2. Then comes Thy gloiy in the summer months, 

With light and heat refulgent, llien Thy sun 

Shoots fiill perfection thro', the s^veiling year ; 

And oft Thy voice in dreadful thvmder speaks ; 

And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 

By brooks and groves, in hollow- whisp'ring gales. 
3. 1 hy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd. 

And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 

In winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 

Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd. 

Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing, 

Riding sublime. Thou bidst the world adore ; 

And humblest nature with Thy northern blast. 
A. Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine. 

Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train. 

Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art. 

Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ; 

Shade, unperceiv'd, so soit'ning into shade. 

And all so forming an harmonious whole, 

That as they still succeed, they ravish stilL 

5. But wand'nng oft, witli brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand. 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that overspreads the spring ; 
Flings from the sun direct the ilaming day ; 

Feeds ev'ry creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on eailh this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

6. Nature, attend! join ev'ry living soul. 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky : 
In adoration join ! and, ardent, raise 
One general song!- — — — - 

Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
Crown the great hymn ! 

7. For me, when I forget the darling theme. 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
Russets the plain ; inspiring autumn gleams ; 
Or winter rises in the black'ning east ; 

Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 

8. Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes. 
Rivers unknow^n to song ; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam , 
Flames on th' Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 
Since ^God is ever present, ever felt. 

In the void waste as in the city full ; 

And where he vital breathes there must be joy. 

9. When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come. 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 

I cheerful will obey; there, with new pow'rs* 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 



CZ'tt//. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 201 

WHiere universal love not smiles around. 

Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
♦ From seeming evil still educing good. 

And better thence again, and better still. 

In infinite progression. But I lose 

Myself in him, in light ineffable! 

Co'me then, expressive silence, muse his praise. 

THOMSOK. 

SECTION XXIIL 

On solitude, 

1. O SOLITUDE, romantic maid! 
Whether by nodding tOY\^ers you tread, 
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, 
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, 

Or climb the Andes' chfted side. 
Or by the Nile's coy source abide, 
Or, starting from your half-year's sleeps 
From Hecla viev/'^the thawing deep. 
Or, at the purple dawn of day, 
Tadmor's marble wastes survey; 

You, recluse, again I woo,' 

And again your steps pursue. 

2. Plum'd conceit himself surveying. 
Folly with her shadow playing. 
Purse-proud elbowing insolence. 
Bloated empiric, puff'd pretence. 
Noise that through a trumpet speaks. 
Laughter in loud peals that breaks, 
Inti-usion, with a fopling's face, 
(Ignorant of time and place,) 
Sparks of fire dissension blowing. 
Ductile, court-bred fiatteiy bowing. 
Restraint's stiff neck, grimace's leer, 
Squint-ey'd censure's artful sneer. 
Ambition's buskins, steep 'd in blood. 
Fly thy presence. Solitude ! 

3. Sage refTection, bent with years. 
Conscious virtue, void of fears. 
Muffled silence, v/ood-nymph shy. 
Meditation's piercing eye. 
Halcyon peace on moss reclin'd. 
Retrospect that scans the m-^nd. 
Rapt earth-gazing revery. 
Blushing artless modesty, 
Health that snuffs the morning air, 
FuU-ey'd truth with bosom bare. 
Inspiration, nature's child. 

Seek the solitary wild. 

4. When all nature's hush'd asleep. 
Nor love, nor guilt, their vigils keep, 
Soft you leave your cavern 'd den. 
And wander o'er the works of men ; 



202 THE ENGLISH READER. 

But when Phvos])hor brings the dawn, 
By her dappled coui\sers d!'awn. 
Again you to the wild retreat, 
And the early iiuntsman meet, 
Where, as you pensive pass along, 
You catch the distant sliepherd's'lsong, 
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, 
Or the rising primrose viev/, 
Devotion lends her heaven-plum'd wings. 
You mount, and nature with you sings. 

5. But when mid-day fervours glow, 
To upland airy shades you go. 
Where never sun-burnt woodman came, 
Nor sportsman chas'd the tim,id game : 
And there, beneath an oak reclin'd, 
With drowsy v/aterfalla behind. 

You sink to rest. 

Till the tuneful bird of night, 

From the neighb'ririg poplar's height, , 

Wake you with her solemn strain. 

And teach pleas'd echo to complain. 

6. With you roses brighter bloom, 
Sweeter every sweet perfume- ; 
Purer every fountain tiows. 
Stronger every v/ilding grows. 
Let those toil for gold vvho please, 
Or, for fame renounce their ease. 
What is fame ? An empty bubble ; 
Gold ? a shining, constant trouble. 
Let them for their country bleed ! 
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed ^ 
Man's not worth a moment's pain ; 
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. 

7. Then let me, sequester 'd fair. 
To your sybil grot repair ; 
On yon hanging cliff it stands, 
Scoop 'd by nature's plastic hands. 
Bosom 'd in the gloomy shade 

Of cypress not with age decay 'd ; 
Where the owl still hooting sits. 
Where the bat incessant fiits ; 
There in loftier strains I'll sing 
Whence the changing seasons spring ; 
Tell hov/ storms deform the skies, 
Whence the Avaves subside and rise. 
Trace the comet's blazing tail. 
Weigh the planets in a scale ; 
Bend, great God, before tliy shrine ; 
The bournless macrocosm's thine. 

8. Since in each scheme of life I've fail'd. 
And disappointment seems cntail'd ; 
Since all on eartli I \^alued most, 

My gui^^.c, my stay, m.y friend is lost; 



Part 2. 



fi id 

>io3 



C/ic^.. 6. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 203 

O Solitude, now give me rest, 
And hush the tempest in my breast. 

gently deign to guide my 'feet 
To your hermit-trodden seat; 
WHere I mi ay live at last m.y own, 
Where I at last may die unknown. 

1 spoke : she turn'd hei* magic ray ; 
And thus she said, or seem'd to say ; 

9. Youth, you're mistaken,^ if you think to find 
In shades, a med'cine for a troubled mind ; 
Wan giief will haunt you wheresoe'er you go, 
Sigh in the breeze, imd in the streamlet flow. 
There, pale inaction pmes his life av/ay ; 
And satiate mourns the quick return ot' day: 
There, naked frenzy laughing wild with pain. 
Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main ; 
Thei'e, superstition broods o'er all her fears. 
And yells of demons in the zephyr heai^s. 
But if a hermit you're resolv'cl to dwell, 

And bid to social life a last farewell ; 
'Tis impious. 

10. God never made an independent man ; 

TT would jar the concord of his general plan. 
See eveiy pai-t of that stupendous whole, 
^ Whose body nature is, ajid God the soul ;" 
To one gi-eat end the general good conspu-e. 
From matter, bnite, to man, to seraph, lire» 
Should man through nature solitaiy roam., 
His vnU. his sovereign, every where his home. 
What force would guard him from the lion's jaw ?* 
What s^viftness wing him from the panther's' paw ? 
Or should fate lead him to some safer shore. 
Where panthers never pix)wl, nor lions roar. 
Where liberal nature all her charmis bestows. 
Suns shine, birds sing, flowers bloom, and water flows. 
Fool, dost thou think he'd revel on the store. 
Absolve the care of Heav'n, nor ask for more ? 
Tho' waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phoebus shone. 
He'd sigh, he'd m.urmur, that he vras alone. 
For know, the Maker on the human breast 
A sense of kindred, country, man, impress'd. 

1. Though nature's works the ruling mind declare, 
And well deserve inquirj^'s serious care. 
The God (whate'er misanthropy may say, ) 
Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray. 
What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole ? 
Hang o'er the sun, and v>^ith the planets roll ? 
What boots through space's fnitnest bourns to' roam ? 
If thou, O man, a stranger art at home. 
Then knovr thyself, the human mind survey ; 
The use, the pleasure, will the toil repay. 

2. Nor study only, practise what you knovv ; 
Your life,' your knowledge, to mankind you owe. 



^4 THE ENGLISH READER. Part "2. 

With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwinef 
Those who in study, should in practice shine. 
Say, does the learned lord of liagley's shade. 
Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid. 
As when arous'd he stems corruption's course, 
And shakes the senate with a Tully's force I 
When freedom gasp'd beneath a Cesar's feet. 
Then public virtue might to shades retreat : 
, But where she breathes, the least may useful be. 
And freedom, Britain, still belongs to thee. 

13. Though man's ungrateful, or though fortune frown; 
Is the reward of worth a song, or cro\\Ti ? 
Nor yet unrecompens'd are virtue's pains ; 
Good. Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns. 
On each condition disappointments wait, 
Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate; '^^^^ 
Nor dare repine though early friendship bleed'l ^ 
From love, the world, and all its cares, he's freed. 
But know, adversity's the child of God : 
Whom Heaven approves of most, must feel her rod. 
When smooth old Ocean, and each storm's asleep, 
Then ignorance may plou|:^h the watery deep : 
But when the demons of the tem.pest rave. 
Skill must conduct the vessel through the wave. 

14. Sidney, what good man envies not thy blow ? 
Who would not wish Anytus'^' for a toe ? 
Intrepid virtue triumphs over fate : 
The good can never be unfortunate ; 
And be this maxim graven in thy mind ; 
The height of virtue is, to serve' mankind. 
But w^hen old age has silver'd o'er thy head. 
When memory fails, and all thy vigour's fled. 
Then mayst thou seek the stillness of retreat. 
Then hear aloof the human tempest beat ; 
Then will I greet thee to my woodland cave. 
Allay the pangs of age, and smooth thy gravp. 

GRAINGER 

* One of the accusers of Socrates. 



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